Pick Your Poison
by Tannin Tele
Summary: In a world with no magic, Harry Potter is dragged along to galas and events to serve as a pretty face beside his schmoozing Uncle Vernon. Then, he saves Thomas Riddle's life. Thrown into a world of politics, assassination attempts and devastatingly handsome aristocrats, Harry must decide to fight for what's right . . . or succumb to his fatal attraction.
1. The Bloodhound

_**Pick Your Poison**_

 _ **(they're all the same.**_

 _ **Poison is poison, no matter the name.)**_

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **The Bloodhound**

When the Mason's car pulled up to Number Four, Privet Drive, Harry was begrudgingly impressed. It was sleek, black and clearly affluent, something that would draw the eye of every gossip-mongering house-wife on the street. As per social niceties, Harry and his uncle waited for Mason's chauffeur to come to the door. Vernon's stomach was tucked into a tight grey suit, a maroon-striped tie clashing horrifically with the red, excited flush to his cheeks. The man was dressed to impress, his golden cufflinks glinting in the low lamp light.

Harry leaned back against the wall, uncomfortable in the deadened silence of his childhood home. Years ago, the house would have been filled with the anxious bustling of Petunia and the annoyed whines of Dudley. Though he certainly didn't miss their apathetic and cruel personalities, Harry missed the sense of normality.

With a nervous fidget, Vernon swivelled around to face a decorative mirror. Licking his palms, he smoothed back a few greying strands of his comb over.

Vernon met Harry's gaze in the reflection, lip curling. Harry had long, dark hair the very color and texture of crow feathers. It went down to his ears, framing a face adorned with jade-green eyes, narrow cheeks and an ugly scar just above his right eye. He had pale, faintly freckled skin, a blatant reminder of his mother's ginger status. Vernon didn't hit him much in the face anymore - his associates liked Harry's features too much for that.

"I'm warning you now boy," Vernon wagged a sausage-like finger. "No _funny_ business or you're out of that room and back into the cupboard. You'll stay out of the way, only speak only when spoken too, and if Mister Mason or any of his associates request _time_ with you, you go without question. Is that understood?"

Stomach clenching with hate and shame, Harry murmured. "Yes sir."

"If it wasn't for Mister Mason's fondness for your tight arse, I wouldn't be wasting my time with you at all," the man grumbled, just as the doorknock clanked thrice. His back straightened, a false smile stretching across mottled cheeks. Harry released a short breath and tried to flatten his hair. He was dressed in loose trousers and a hand-me-down blazer, the sleeves stretching far past his wrists. They were hand-me-downs from Dudley's closet. Vernon had picked out the outfit, wanting Harry to at least _look_ respectable.

Vernon opened the door. A nondescript man in black inclined his head politely, gesturing towards the car. "Your ride awaits, Mister Dursley and . . . guest," he rumbled.

Harry locked the door behind him, feeling dreadful about the night ahead.

This wasn't the first gala or dinner Vernon had dragged him along to. It started when he was about twelve and he'd met the Masons for the first time.

Vernon worked in a drill company that specialized in unscrupulous methods of business and trade. Long before Dudley's accident and Petunia's descent into depression, Vernon invited the Masons over for dinner, hoping to impress the wealthy businessman. Petunia had made a pudding and Dudley had practiced saying _"'May I take your coats, Mister and Missus Mason?'"_ in a suitably pompous voice.

Harry was delegated to dishwasher duty and subjected to Vernon's horrible Japanese golfer jokes all evening. He had felt the uncomfortable burn of a beady gaze on his backside but didn't give it much thought. He was an oddity to most people. Harry Evans-Potter; that strange, quiet, waif-like orphan child with too-large clothes and too-bright eyes.

Hands still damp and dishwater staining his shirt, Harry went to throw out the rubbish. Mister Mason, too, excused himself 'for a smoke'. Hefting the rubbish into the bin, Harry was dwarfed by the Mason's large, imposing shadow. _"You must be so grateful to your Aunt and Uncle for taking you in . . . "_ Lips brushed against his outer ear. _"If you want Vernon to get that promotion, I suggest you go on your knees,"_ His voice echoed in his nightmares. Harry struggled, but Mason was deceptively strong. _"That's a good boy."_

This went on for several dinners, until Vernon caught onto Mister Mason's perversion. As far as Vernon was concerned, as long as heavy checks continued to be slipped into his bank account, the continued abuse of his nephew was perfectly alright. Harry always dreaded being carted along to visit Mister Mason and Vernon's other _friends._ He forced himself to stare into those gold-toothed smiles, avoiding the leering eyes and bald heads. He endured the lingering hands on his lower back and the deep voices asking Vernon if they could _'borrow'_ Harry for a moment.

Stomach rolling in disgust, Harry would lower his eyes and led into a dark hall. As his throat burned or his arse was stretched, Harry would close his eyes and imagine he was anywhere else in the world. Someplace with magic, far-off and fantastical, where he could be with someone who loved him.

As far as Harry knew, tonight was just another night.

* * *

Schmoozing was one of Harry's least favorite occupations. Vernon was a natural, with his capability to spot old money with the merest glance. Thankfully, the man was preoccupied, in deep conversation with one of Mason's friends about the gold standard.

The man, Mister Diggory, was accompanied by a woman he introduced as his fiancée; a trim, pale women that looked young enough to be his daughter. She was of Asian descent, and needless to say, Vernon's same-old racist jokes hadn't gone over well. On her third glass of chardonnay, the woman's eyes were glazed over and fixated on the chandelier. Harry could understand the sentiment. Several feet away, he sat boredly on a stool, swirling his non-alcoholic cider in it's crystal glass. Mason's driver had brought them to a posh casino, it's rooms bustling with finely-dressed statesmen, brokers, militant men and their wives.

The bar was stocked with liquor, the clear, golden and red liquids served in tall flutes. A rowdy crowd beside Harry was building up quite the tab, and the barkeeps looked keen to toss them out. Harry noted a back room where gamblers tested their luck against a smirking, dark-skinned dealer, the man skillfully shuffling his deck. The cards were but a blur as they passed from hand to hand.

"How'd you like to test your hand at poker, my friend?" Vernon clapped the back of his companion. With a bit of drink in him, the man was already flushed, his tongue looser and his moustache frayed.

Mason's friend split a cocky grin. "Ah, Vernon. You've found my one vice. I daresay that dealer could be _convinced_ into giving us a fair chance."

Harry frowned into his drink. 'Fair' wasn't a word he'd use.

By the unimpressed look of the dealer, the man agreed. Vernon and co. reluctantly sat back to watch the current players.

Harry debated slipping away into the crowd. It was clear his services weren't needed - Mister Mason was busy with a dark-haired man a few seats away, in an area warded by velvet ropes. They sat in plush chairs, a tray of hors d'oeuvre between them. Despite the accommodations, Mason appeared distressed. Perhaps it had something to do with the guarded armistice of men in black surrounding him.

Mason tugged at his collar and mumbled something beneath his breath. Though Harry couldn't read lips, it was clear the businessman would rather not be having this conversation.

The boy idly ran his finger around the rim of his glass, watching as the slimy, balding man shrink into his seat. Wearing a suit of deep, foreboding red, his companion spoke in little more than a whisper, his eyes narrowed dangerously. There was a pause in the room's cacophony, and Harry caught a snippet of Mason's trembling interuption.

" . . . but I spoke to Thicknesse only a few weeks ago, he never mentioned any interest in running - "

"Interests change." The other man spoke shortly, his voice a low purr. "That is not the point. Scrimgeour must not continue in his endeavors, and Thicknesse is our only option. He's very popular amongst the aristocrats - something to do with old money." Warning bells rang in Harry's head.

Scrimgeour was their current Prime Minister, a man devoted to law enforcement and national security. He was well-liked by the populace, but not so much by the small minority of criminals that thrived on slipping beneath the Ministry's radar.

Mister Mason was a builder, not a politician, however. He supplied Grunnings with goods and materials - imported illegally from out of country and smuggled along with some uncommon drugs, but nothing that hadn't been done before. As far as Harry knew, Mason's only other extracurriculars were fanatically supporting his alma-mater's rugby team and, of course, indulging in other sweaty pastimes. Clearly Mason was in deeper shit than Harry thought.

 _Fantastic,_ Harry took a sip of his cider. _Perhaps he'll be arrested._ But then, if Mason went down, Vernon and Grunnings would go tumbling after. And as much as Harry hated his uncle, he hated being punished for Vernon's failures even more.

Harry was snapped from these thoughts as Mason was dismissed. The businessman lifted himself heavily from his chair. He accidentally met Harry's eyes before quickly looking away, chagrined. Craning his neck, Mason spotted Vernon's head amongst the poker players and hustled away.

Harry couldn't help but linger on the other man, who was pensively tapping his long fingers against the armrest. With a twitch of his hand, he ordered a drink from a pretty, dark-skinned girl, the purple uniform stunning on her healthy figure. She made a visible, almost comical effort to school her expression into a coy obsequiousness. "Of course, Mister Riddle." The man gave her a charming smile and she rushed off to fetch his drink.

Harry had noticed the girl hovering around the strange man all night, perhaps trying - and failing - to hide her attraction. From what Harry could see, Mister Riddle _was_ very handsome. Harry wasn't exposed to many Adonis-like creatures in his reluctant participation of pederasty. Vernon's 'friends' were usually overweight, overconfident and unable to talk their trophy wives into bed; so they looked to other means.

Harry was slightly uncomfortable with his own fleeting attraction to this dangerous stranger and tampered it down, finishing off his glass. As he looked for something else to distract him, Harry notice the dark-skinned attendant absentmindedly placing a glass on the bar top.

Too fast for Harry to process, another man stepped forward and tipped a vial of clear liquid into the drink. A satisfied smirk on his lips, he melted back into the crowd, dark eyes glinting.

Harry choked on his drink, horror rushing through him as the waitress returned. Balancing the cup on a tray, she delivered it to Mister Riddle, her smile faintly menacing in the dark light. Riddle took it with a grateful nod, swirling the drink in it's glass. The black-haired boy slid to his feet and struggled to part the crowd. Just as he was about the enter the velvet ropes, a large figure moved to block him.

"This is a restricted area," the bodyguard grunted. He had the width of a rugby player and the belly of a whale. Harry watched the man flex his arms beneath his tight suit jacket.

"I - I work for Grunnings," Harry lied. "Mason sent me to deliver a message," The man was dubious. Meanwhile, Riddle was bringing the glass to his lips. "Goddamnit . . . Sir!" He attempted to lunge forward. A large arm snaked around his middle, tugging him back. "Let _go!_ Sir, Mister Riddle, someone's tampered with your drink!"

Riddle stilled, swivelling around to stare at the disheveled, flushing boy. He slowly lowered his cup and stared into the glass. His nose twitched above it. There was a long, aching silence before he finally spoke. "Release the boy, Goyle."

The bodyguard reluctantly pulled away, letting the boy stumbled forward. Riddle watched the boy right himself. He gestured to the seat across from him. "Sit down, please." Harry shakily sat, sensing the heavy gaze of Goyle and the others. They were tensed like wildcats, ready to pounce at the slightest sign of trouble. "What is your name, boy?"

"H - Harry. Harry . . . Evans. sir,"

"You may call me Tom. I apologize on behalf of my associate for his rough handling," Riddle said lowly. Harry felt miniscule under Riddle's dark stare.

The man's blue eyes were clouded with curiosity, suspicion, and something . . . gentle. To be honest, it was hard to describe Thomas Riddle as 'soft' no matter the thread count of his suit. His hair was a sleek brown and perfectly coiffed, accentuating his high cheekbones and aristocratic features. Riddle was younger than Harry predicted, perhaps in his forties or even late thirties. He had that suave, timeless look many of his stature strived for. This was a strange - but not entirely unpleasant - juxtaposition to the ill-favored company Riddle kept.

"Now what was this about . . . tampering?" His smooth voice gained a dangerous edge.

Harry swallowed, suddenly finding it difficult to articulate. "Er, yes," he mumbled. "Just before you were served, a man mixed something into it. A clear liquid. He looked . . . smug."

Riddle's nostrils flared, the only outward sign of turmoil. "Interesting," he said flatly. "Could you point the man out?"

Forcing himself to look away, Harry's brow furrowed as he scanned the crowd. "He had long, dark hair and was wearing all black. I think he left that way."

Fingers clenched the armrest. "Did he have a rather prominent nose?" At Harry's nod, the man snapped. "Fenrir!"

A hulking guard stepped forward. He had stringy silver hair and golden eyes. The handle of his cane was carved with the head of a wolf. Around his wrists and twining up his neck were silvery, puckered scars. "Yes, Mister Riddle?" The man bared his teeth and Harry jolted. Fenrir's incisors were whittled into sharp, sparkling points.

"Will that description be enough? If so, I suggest moving swift."

Fenrir nodded, a determined smirk on his face. The man moved surprisingly swift despite his dead leg.

"We call Greyback our bloodhound," Riddle said slyly, moving to stand. A sudden crash was heard from the outer hall, followed by a woman's startled scream. "Would you accompany me to identify the suspect?"

It wasn't meant as a request.

* * *

 ** _To be continued. . ._**

 ** _In_ The Prince**

* * *

 **Character Notes:**

 **Though it's not specified, I've named the Casino 'The Elixir' after a booth listed at The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. The full name is 'Eternelle's Elixir of Refreshment', which - what with Tom's requested drink being titled the 'Elixir of Life' - I thought was pertinent.**

 **Listed 'Death Eaters':**  
 **Mason - a wealthy businessman with connections to the middle-class voter**  
 **Goyle - one of Tom's bodyguards. Known for his brawn and trigger-happy attitude.**  
 **Fenrir - known for his ability to track down and capture targets. Leader of the insidious gang, 'the Snatchers'.**  
 **Macnair - Tom's lead interrogator.**  
 **Bellatrix - Known for her beauty and sadism.**  
 **Lucius - The brain to Crabbe and Goyle's brawn.**  
 **Peter - Sent to collect Karkaroff. Unpredictably swift and wily.**  
 **Karkaroff - Weak-willed coward, on the run.**  
 **Stan - An innocent chauffeur, talkative, but loyal.**  
 **Rabastan and Avery - Quiet, but highly dangerous members of Tom's guard.**

 **I've imagined the poker dealer to resemble Blaise Zabini, with a shrewd eye for manipulation and deception. Also, if you notice my description, there's another employee in the Casino that will be important later.**


	2. The Prince

_**Pick Your Poison**_

 _ **(they're all the same.**_

 _ **Poison is poison, no matter the name.)**_

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **The Prince**

"Severus Prince." Riddle said with a dark purr. "We meet again."

He stepped into the dim light of the alley, his red suit appearing the exact hue of blood. Harry lingered nervously behind, staring at the man brought to his knees. That was him - the assassin. Harry was sure of it. He didn't look so smug now with Fenrir's large hands holding him down. There was a gun pointed to his head, the barrel pressed cruelly against a bleeding wound.

"It's _Snape,"_ the man said through clenched teeth.

"You will always be Prince to me, dear boy," Riddle smiled. "I knew your mother in school - I even supported her when she dropped out to raise _you."_ Severus blinked. "Of course, I thought she was a rather talented woman and should have remained in school, but she's about as stubborn as you are, it seems."

"She's dead, you foul creature," Severus growled. "And you would be too, if you'd drank that _é_ _lixir-de-vie."_

"Elixir of life, yes?" Riddle said with amusement. "Rather ironic."

"Fuck you." The man spat, a chunk of spittle splattering at Riddle's shoes. The bodyguards tensed, Fenrir yanking Severus' head back by his long, greasy hair. The veins in his neck pulsed. "You act like you _know_ me, Riddle - like I owe you some favor."

Riddle sneered. "Who do you think bought your childhood home? Who funded your extensive schooling? Who paid the expenses for your mother's funeral? Not your penniless, drunkard of a father, for certain."

Severus breathed heavily through his nose. "You - you killed Lily," Harry jerked with surprise. That was his mother's name. "And that's something that can never been repaid."

The elder man waved a dismissive hand. "It was her husband who wronged me, Severus. When she stood against me, I offered her mercy, the chance to _live -_ she could've ran away with her young child and made a new life. She chose wrong."

Chest jerking, Severus seemed to be holding back a sob. "Albus told me - "

"Albus is wrong about many things. You should not have been so foolish to listen to him." Tom said this with the utmost neutrality.

"I've been foolish quite a bit, lately," the other admitted freely.

Harry was unsure what to think of the situation. The conversation had descended into a calm, Tom's voice smooth and calming.

"You have two choices here, young Prince," Riddle went down on one knee to stare into Severus' dark eyes. "The first is detainment. For you, I will assign Macnair and Bellatrix as my interrogators. I'm certain they are very excited to re-acquaint themselves with you," a flinch rolled through Severus' gaunt figure. Tom clenched Severus' chin, fingers tightening around the skin.

"You will be tortured for hours on end, brought to the brink of death only to be revived in order to experience the whole ordeal once more. The pain will not be monotonous and tolerable - no, it will be acute and so, very, horrendous. Enough so that even a composed man such as yourself will soon crumble, lips spilling both blood and the classified information that I've sought after for years. I will watch you crack under the pressure with little mercy."

Harry fought a gasp.

"Or?" Severus croaked.

Riddle silently held out a hand. A man wearing velvet gloves, his hair a burning shade of bleached white, carefully placed the glass flute into Tom's grasp. The clear liquid inside appeared innocuous, but Harry could only imagine the deadly poison inside.

"Befallen by your own sword," Tom mused. "Brave, perhaps? Cowardice? Depends on who you ask. But no matter. Hopefully, it will be a swift death. It is only due to my fondness for your mother that I offer it."

The potion-maker swallowed, sharp Adam's apple bobbing. "I will not betray Albus," he said quietly. "Even if he has manipulated me like one of his chess pieces - I - I am a loyal man."

"So be it," Riddle acknowledged, handing over the drink. Fenrir released Severus' hair, moving back to stand amongst the shadows. Severus lifted a trembling hand, staring down at the liquid with the expression of a man at the gallows.

"For my mother," the man blurted. "I will tell you this for free. Albus is intent on killing you and anyone who dares align themselves with your cause. He will protect Scrimgeour with the full force of the Order, and will see my death as a gauntlet being thrown. If you repent, perhaps the Order will go easy on you. If not - "

"I appreciate the warning, Severus," Riddle said grimly. "But this war has been going long before you were even born. I regret your participation in it, but just like Lily made her choice - so have you."

Severus inclined his head and took in a deep breath. With that, he brought the flute to his lips. Harry stepped forward, suddenly not-so-certain he wanted to witness the death of this man. "Riddle . . . "

Even as he swallowed, Severus' gaze snapped up, taking in the sight of this small boy, eyes the shade of fresh spring grass. "Lily?" he murmured.

But his words were cut off by a sudden choke. Glass shattered as his hands flew to his throat, the skin sizzling. He collapsed onto his back, gasping out desperate breaths, blood and bile caking his fingers. It was horrible and disturbing, watching him writhe silently on the ground, his pupils blown wide. His life ended with a last gasp of breath, and all that remained of his throat was a hollow hole.

Harry gagged, disgust flooding him. He heaved into a corner, the bile tasting of rotten apple. Riddle stood, turning toward his savior in time to watch Harry collapse in a dead faint into his own vomit.

"Oh, dear," Riddle murmured, hearing Harry's skull crack against the stone. "Is there a chance he won't remember this?" he asked of Lucius, who seemed paler than usual.

The aristocrat made a delicate noise of vague doubt, silver eyes fixated on the dead body of his old friend.

* * *

Harry came to slowly, sensations and thoughts arriving gradually through his stupor. The air tasted like cologne and liquor. Cushioned beneath his head was a soft bundle of fabric. He opened his eyes and hovering above him was Riddle. The man's lips were pressed tightly.

"How . . . how long was I out?" he rasped, wiping his mouth.

"Long enough for me to be concerned." Riddle said lowly. His suit jacket was off, revealing a tight black dress-shirt that hugged his figure far too pleasingly. Harry supposed there could be worse sights to wake up to. "You look a bit peaky. Have you eaten?"

Harry shook his head, black hair fluttering. "I don't think I'd have kept it down, even if I had. That was . . . gruesome." It was only response he could find. Severus' body was gone, leaving only a dark space where the blood had soaked into the stone.

Riddle grimaced. "Far more gruesome than I expected from him."

"You still let him drink it," Harry accused, gasping when the words fled his mouth. The bodyguards towered over him, expressions smooth, but with a hint of warning.

"Severus made his own choice," is all Riddle replied with. "Come, up you get." Harry allowed himself to be helped up, leaning heavily against the bodyguard that grabbed his elbow. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to keep quiet about the events that just occurred. Will you have a problem with this?"

Harry flinched. "I . . . no one would believe me if I told them."

Tom smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Good. Shall I escort you back to the party? Oh - and by the way," Tom turned toward a small, mousy man, whose eyes darted up. "Karkaroff was supposed to be watching my drinks tonight. You know what to do." The man gave a single, slow nod.

Harry allowed himself to be led into a storage facility, through a long hall and back to the party room. The sudden influx of noise and the press of people caused Harry's breath to quicken. How could he go back to normal - catering to Vernon's friends and mourning the loss of his Aunt and Cousin in the lonesomeness of his bedroom - after watching a man dissolve his own throat?

 _"Boy!"_ Vernon's dark voice carried. The large man forced his way through the crowd, seemingly not noticing the tall bureaucrat accompanying his nephew. Behind him was Mason, who froze at the sight of Riddle. "We've been looking for you. Mister Mason has requested your presence for the evening . . . to help him relax," Vernon's grin was vile. He yanked at Harry's wrist.

The contact caused Harry to flinch. "Yes, Uncle Vernon."

Fast as a viper, Tom's hand shot out to grasp Harry's slim shoulder. "Vernon, is it?" he asked with feigned politeness. "Vernon . . . Dursley?" Tom glanced at Mason, who nodded jerkily. "The director of Grunnings! Yes, I believe Mason has mentioned you."

"Yes," Vernon said snootily, grip falling away. "You are?"

"Thomas Riddle," Vernon's mouth fell open. "And this charming young man is your nephew?" Gleaming with humor, blue eyes surveyed the slim, pixie-like Harry and his portly uncle. "I see no resemblance."

"He's . . . he's my late wive's nephew," Vernon shot a bewildered glance at Mason. "Has Harry been bothering you? If so, we will happily take him off your hands."

"Harry's been exact opposite of a bother," Tom smiled, thinking quickly. "I hope you don't mind, but I had hoped to take him to dinner. Perhaps he will accompany me the entire weekend, if all goes well." The statement seemed pleasant enough, but it was made clear that if Vernon _did_ mind, his night would be anything but. Tom turned to the clammy and suddenly silent Mason. "I _do_ apologize for the inconvenience, dear friend, but perhaps - since your evening has been made clear - you could begin that campaign I required, hm?"

"Y - yes, Tom," Mason stammered. "Of course."

Vernon didn't look too saddened by the loss of his nephew's company. His eyes were fixated on Tom's hand, still possessively clenching Harry's shoulder. A golden ring glinted on his pinky, a sign of wealth, as far as Vernon was concerned.

The man smirked. "Just make sure you're back by Monday . . . _Harry."_

* * *

It was the second time Harry found himself in a car that night.

The limousine was lavish and infinitely more comfortable than Mason's car - perhaps because the company was better. Tom and Harry were alone, save the chauffeur, and Tom was _tsking_ at Harry's attire. For good reason; the back of his jacket was stained with vomit.

"It looks like you rolled out of a barn, child," the man said. "Have you tried brushing your hair?"

"Of course I have. It was ineffective."

Tom laughed. "Perhaps a bit of glue will hold it down. As for your suit, I think I shall have Lucius fetch an outfit from his son's closet. Draco is about your size, perhaps a bit taller." Riddle misread Harry's horrified expression. "Do not worry, the Malfoys are very stylish. You should be able to trust them, in this, at least." Tom knocked at the tinted window separating them and the driver. "Stanley?"

"Er, yes, sir?" the driver said, with a faint lisp. Harry saw through the rearview mirror that Stan was a weedy, pock-marked man, only a bit older than Harry.

"Radio Lucius, if you will. See if he's willing to fetch me -"

"I'm, I'm sorry, sir," the man winced. "I think Malfoy's already taken leave. He got a call from his wife, or some'fink."

Tom frowned. "Who took his place? Avery?" Stan nodded. "Honestly, I do wish they would inform me of these things. Where are the others? Is that Rabastan on our tail?"

"Nah, I think that's Goyle." Stan glanced through a mirror. "He ain't so good a driver. 'Bastan and the others are up ahead."

Riddle considered this for a second. "Is Pettigrew with Goyle?"

Stan had to check over the radio, a rasping voice responding with slight irritation. "Yeah, Peter's on."

"Peter," Tom spoke loudly. "Have Goyle stop by the manor. In my closet, there should be a freshly-laundered Armani suit, a shade of dark grey, hanging over the dresser. Chose a green tie. I will also require some dress shoes, size - " Tom's eyes darted down. "Oh, about 42? Yes?"

Harry nodded, eyes wide.

"Are . . . are they for the boy?" Peter's voice cracked. "You really don't - "

"You really don't want to finish that sentence, Pettigrew," Tom said sharply. "You're on thin ice enough, as it is. Karkaroff was your responsibility and he got away. If you fail me again, there will be no second chances. Do what I ask, and be quick about it. Understood?"

Peter's response was but a squeak, and the radio line cut. Tom leaned back, satisfied. "You . . . didn't need to do that," Harry said quietly, tugging at a stray thread in his jacket. "I appreciate it, really, but - "

Riddle lifted a hand, lips twitching. "No thanks necessary. Just your agreement to burn that suit the next chance we have."

Harry looked at him fearfully. "This is my uncle's suit. I can't just - "

"It was only a joke," Tom soothed. "Now, tell me. How does such a riveting creature as yourself end up with a relative like Dursley?"

This time, Harry laughed weakly. "You flatter me," he reverted to old methods of charm and compliance, beat into him over years of interacting with flirtatious older men. "My parents died when I was very young. I was supposed to go to my godfather, but he, er, found himself incarcerated for attempted murder on a friend of theirs. My aunt took me in, raising me with her son, who was only a year older than me."

"Was?"

"Y - yes. When we were about fifteen, he broke into Vernon's gun cabinet and was showing off to some friends," Harry winced. "A bullet ricocheted off some playground equipment and struck him in the forehead. He . . . he was dead in an instant." By the dead tone of Harry's voice, Tom suspected any show of condolence would be rejected.

"My aunt fell into a deep depression. She couldn't cook, couldn't clean - and Vernon wasn't the most sympathetic of husbands. He threw himself into work and began drinking heavier than ever before. It was all I could do to make sure they both ate full meals and the house didn't fall into squalor."

Blue eyes narrowed. "You were only a child, and you were playing the adult."

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. "I didn't have much of a childhood to begin with. Anyways, despite my efforts, Petunia got worse. She wouldn't leave Dudley's room, not even to bathe," he took a shaky breath. "I got home from school one day and heard something from Dudley's bedroom. All of his toys- the electronic pets, his video-games, his Walkman - had been turned on, filling the room with endless chatter. His clothes had been piled into a makeshift bed with his teddy-bear for a pillow. Petunia was sleeping on top. Or, I thought she was sleeping, at first. Then I realized her dress was covered in blood. Beside her was Vernon's razor, and clenched in her bloody hands was a picture of her son."

"Sometimes, I think - if it had been me that died, instead of Dudley, she would've been happy. I hated my aunt. She was a cruel, thoughtless woman that provided only the bare minimum for me, and let my uncle - " Harry's voice cut off with a strangled noise. "D-despite that . . . she'd been a good mum. He had been her whole world. She loved Dudley more than anything, and when he died, she shattered.

"I don't wish something like that upon even my worst enemy."

The silence afterwards was deafening.

* * *

 ** _To be continued. . ._**

 ** _In_ The Infidel**


	3. The Infidel

_**Pick Your Poison**_

 _ **(they're all the same.**_

 _ **Poison is poison, no matter the name.)**_

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **The Infidel**

By the time he arrived at his manor, the man was no longer able to compose himself. He'd made up a silly excuse about his wife and left the casino as swiftly as possible. He couldn't stay with that group of mismatched criminals for any longer, not after . . . Severus.

After being dropped off at the front gate, he slipped into the entrance hall, standing utterly still for a few, long minutes.

The ambiance of Malfoy Manor was entirely resplendent. Moonlight streamed through the halls, shining off the silver fixtures and marble floor. It was almost deathly quiet, the tick of a grandfather clock echoing.

Lucius finally allowed himself to crumble, placing a hand on a wall to steady himself. He couldn't get the image of Severus out of his head. From the bowed head of dark hair to those fiercely glaring, intelligent eyes. Severus hadn't changed much over the years. He was still thin, rough around the edges, and his ability to hold a grudge was just as strong.

Severus, however, hadn't recognized Lucius. Perhaps that was a blessing.

When they were in school, Lucius had short, dirty-blonde hair and a large zit on his cheek. Despite their age difference, Severus had excelled in school, enough so that he'd been taking Year Five courses by his third year. They took arithmetic together - both competing to be top of the class.

The other students had not been fond of being usurped by that greasy, peasant boy. James Potter was one of them - he was rich, popular and athletic - and had only got into the academy by way of his father's reputation.

Severus _earned_ his way in through a scholarship.

Lucius was a prefect, and in his cursory after-hour survey of the halls, had found Severus bruised and bloodied in the bathroom.

Severus' father had been particularly distraught over his son's overt intelligence and had given him an improper farewell gift that consisted of both his belt and his fists. The Malfoy scion had been sympathetic (subject to the occasional belting from his war-hero father, himself) and patched Severus up to the best of his ability.

They remained friends until Lucius' graduation, after which Severus had been invited to Lucius' wedding.

The man had not appeared until the late reception, wearing all black and his expression solemn. _"You look like you've just come from a funeral, old friend,"_ Lucius remembered saying, ever-so slightly inebriated.

 _"I have,"_ Severus responded quietly. _"My mother has passed."_ Lucius quickly regretted his hasty comment, inviting Severus in for a night-cap. Severus denied. _"I've only come to give my congratulations. Narcissa is a lovely woman._ _Though her family leaves much to desire."_

Lucius couldn't help but agree. _"Narcissa has long ago distanced herself from the likes of Sirius Black; we haven't even invited him to the wedding. Please, Severus, just stay for the evening - "_

 _"I really mustn't. There are . . . there are some things I need to do."_ If Lucius had been sober, he would have recognized the grim determination on Severus' face for what it was. All the blonde did was slap Severus on the back and wish him well, watching Severus disappear into the bushes.

Weeks later, on his honeymoon, Lucius read about the murder of a Cokeworth man named Tobias Snape. The cause of death was poison - a particularly painful variant of cyanide, if Lucius remembered correctly - and the very first suspect brought in for questioning had been Tobias' son. Severus Snape; an apothecarian with a grudge.

That was the last Lucius heard of his old friend - but Severus had, apparently, struck a deal with the police force. Albus Dumbledore, head of Law Enforcement under the new Minister, Rufus Scrimgeour, took special interest in the apothecarian. The Minister's not-so secret police needed men like Severus with 'hidden talents'. His ability to create potent, undetectable drugs was nearly unheard of. Severus' truth serum was utilized in interrogations, and it was said he even made a potion that would mimic death.

Severus proved a lethal assassin, the only exception being his attempt on Thomas Riddle. The fact he got so close to killing Riddle amazed Lucius. The man would have been a strong ally and spy - but Severus had made his decision. Lucius was consoled by the fact Severus could have died worse deaths.

Let it not be said Thomas Riddle wasn't a merciful leader.

For some reason, Lucius was reminded of a night long ago. After a tiring day of work, brandy had loosened Tom's tongue enough for the usually stoic crime lord to recite a story.

Nearly seveteen years ago, the notorious lawman James Potter - incidently Severus' childhood bully - had captured and incarcerated the family Lestrange, who were under Riddle's protection. Bellatrix had been pregnant at the time, but her treatment under Potter had led her to painfully miscarry.

Riddle soon broke them out of jail, but Bellatrix was intent on revenge.

While the Lestranges attacked Potter's partners - Alice and Frank Longbottom - for standing by as Bellatrix was tortured into insanity, Riddle went after James Potter himself. In the dead of night, he trespassed their secure home and shot James straight through the heart.

His wife, Lily Evans, wouldn't let Tom leave in peace. She attacked him with a kitchen knife, but was too ridden with sobs to do any damage. Admiring her tenacity, Tom offered her the chance to live . . . but Lily Evans was just as stubborn as her husband. He killed her mercilessly, her screams awakening their infant son from his slumber.

Tom nearly killed the child. He had wanted to, the red haze of murder thrumming through his body, but something stopped him. Perhaps it was the boy's eyes - green and tearful - or his tiny grasp on the crib's bars. The boy was completely helpless, completely innocent.

The boy couldn't make a choice between life or death. So Tom chose for him. Harry Potter survived against all odds, and even Dumbledore was surprised.

They were all connected, somehow, even seventeen years later. Albus Dumbledore. Thomas Riddle. Severus Snape. James Potter. Lily Evans.

Harry . . . Evans . . .

Lucius' brow puckered, remembering a flash of nervous green eyes and dark, messy hair. Familiar features. A familiar determination in his gaze.

No wonder the boy looked familiar.

His father had been a schoolmate of Lucius, after all.

"Narcissa!" Lucius shouted, bounding up the marble staircase and into their bed quarters. The fireplace was roaring, his wife sitting up in bed, her long hair falling in waves around her face. A book fell from her hands.

"Lucius?" the woman frowned at his panic. "Has something happened?"

The man sat heavily at the end of the bed, grey eyes dark and grim. "There's been a great deal of changes, my love. Severus Snape has been killed," the woman blinked, before gasping in recognition. "And, more importantly, I need you to contact your r _ebellious_ niece and tell her . . . tell her Harry Potter has been compromised."

Narcissa threw off her covers, revealing a silk night dress. She drew a robe around her body, tightening the rope firmly. "Riddle has found the boy?"

"Worse. The boy has found Riddle."

* * *

"How . . . how do I look?"

Tom glanced up to find his companion looking an odd combination of a child playing dress-up and a handsome man on the cusp of adulthood. The suit really was too large. Tom almost begrudged that fact, having hoped the tailoring would flatter Harry's slim figure.

It's sleeves were rolled and cuffed nearly three times. The jacket was lank around his torso, the hem of the pants pooling at his feet. Harry, however, wore it with confidence. It seemed that the rich, silky material and Tom's approving smirk were enough to instil some sense of self-worth in the poor boy. "Like a proper consort," Tom said idly, earning a startled look from the boy. "Calm down, child. In this context, it means companion. Sit. Drink. Be merry."

Harry grimaced, sitting in the cushioned dining chair. "I think I've had enough drink for tonight. That apple cider did not taste excellent coming back up."

"Hush. That is not dinner conversation," the man, however, seemed amused. He pushed forward a glass. "Just an ice water for you, then. You're not of age yet, are you?"

"'m seventeen," the boy muttered. "I'll be eighteen next month."

"Hm. Still, we ought not take any chances. I've a premonition you're a lightweight," Tom hid his laugh behind a cup of steaming tea. Harry's pink-lipped gaping was quite endearing.

The attendant was dressed in tasteful salmon-pink. Wrists decked with pearls, the hostess delivered their menus with a coy smile. Her hair was shiny black and held in an uncomfortably tight bun. "My name is Valentina Puddifoot," she spoke with a heavy Scottish accent, giving Tom a wink. "I'm the owner of this establishment, but I will be personally serving you tonight. Can I start you off with anything, dears?"

Harry realized that he and Tom weren't the only couple sitting together. Madam Puddifoot's seemed to be the sort of establishment for romantic dates . . . and didn't that make his heart flutter.

When their meal came a bit later, Harry was surprised by the burst of flavors in his mouth. "This is - this is amazing."

"You've never had fine cuisine, Harry?" Tom swallowed his bite of steak. "Your uncle seems the sort to - how do I say this politely? - _indulge_ in gourmet meals."

A laugh was startled out of the boy. "I don't go out with him much, actually."

"No? Was tonight an anomaly, then?"

"Well, he doesn't treat me to fine dining often, let's just say. He only brings me to events like that," he gestured vaguely. "If Mister Mason or his other _friends_ are there. They . . . they like me."

Tom forced a smile, stamping down his suspicions. "It's hard not to."

Harry ducked his head, hiding a blush. As the meal continued in silence - far more comfortable than in the car ride - Tom inspected his newest _project._ There was potential with the boy, for certain.

Despite the fainting spell and brief show of insolence, the boy seemed not uncomfortable with violence. From what Harry had revealed of his home life, Tom suspected Vernon Dursley wasn't the kindest of caregivers. Tom caught Harry's arm as the boy reached for his drink. He smiled disarmingly. "Pull up your sleeves. They're trailing into your meal." Harry nodded, rolling the sleeves over pale, thin wrists. Tom's gaze sharpened as he saw dark, finger-shaped smudges.

Yet he still said nothing. He waited several moments before speaking.

"When I was born," Tom began suddenly, setting his fork carefully onto it's napkin. "My mother was very ill. She'd been sickly since childhood; a hereditary disease. She was uneducated and unfed, leading her to be a highly unattractive woman. Her dowry had been pitiful, leaving her little prospects for marriage. Even so, she had fallen in love with a rich man that rode his horse by her house every day. Though they didn't converse much, she quickly fell for his charm and good looks. My father married her out of pity. He thought he could turn the skinny girl with bruises around her throat and her dirty hair falling out in clumps into a woman of status.

"Everyone thought his choice to marry her was ridiculous - she must have tricked him, blackmailed him into wedding her," Tom sneered. "Rest assured, my mother was not smart enough for that. No, marrying poor Merope Gaunt was a tactical decision on my father's part. He could bathe her in scented soaps, dress her in gowns and pearls and teach her to read, but she was still just the daughter of a village joke.If he was caught _en flagrante_ with another woman, it would be acceptable. _'Who would want to sleep with an ugly bitch like Merope, anyways?'_

"Then - _then -_ she became pregnant with me. My father was certain she was infertile; her body was simply too feeble, too abused to survive childbirth. She barely made it through labor, with only enough energy left to name me after her dismissive husband, Thomas, and her cruel, abusive father, Marvolo. She named me after her two banes." He shook his head. "What a namesake. But it was no matter. As I grew, it was made clear that I had no use except to continue the family line. I was largely ignored, left to my own devises, referred to as his 'bastard child' even though my parents were married. Outsiders could say I was raised with a silver-spoon in my mouth. I went to the finest academy and had everything I could ever want or need . . . but not the love of a parent.

"You and I, Harry, we are very similar," Tom tapped his nose. "Neglected, unwanted, forgotten. They told me I would amount to nothing, but I proved them wrong. I made something of myself. When my father died, I used his money to build an empire. I help poor, unfortunate souls by taking in the lonely and misused, giving them a new life - a new _purpose_.

"Fenrir Greyback, for example, was a dog-fighter that was too fond of his pups. He couldn't handle watching them be starved and beaten, forced into killing each other for _entertainment._ With my assistance, the cruel animal abusers were punished, and Fenrir now uses his rescue dogs to track down enemies of our own.

"Lucius Malfoy came from old money. His father was a spy in the war for the French Army - the _Légion étrangère -_ and his mother was an actress. He was startlingly bright as a child and a talented young man, but he had one fault; he was in love. The Minister's secret police, the Order of the Phoenix, tried to contact Lucius and frame him for several criminal acts he had no part of. Lucius went to me for protection, and since then, his wife and son have been safe. And all I asked in return from Lucius was his loyalty." The man's voice had become a soft lull, the distressing things he described negated by the dim lighting and the scented candles.

"Bellatrix Lestrange is Lucius' sister in law, a beautiful woman with a sadistic streak. We've been friends for a long time. Because of her connection to me, she and her family were kidnapped and tortured into near-insanity by the Order of Phoenix. She was injured to the point of miscarrying her unborn daughter. I initiated a break-out and personally assisted in Bellatrix finding her vengeance. I do not take kindly to murdering children." Tom fell silent, thinking of bright green eyes and a screaming, red-haired woman. "I still do not."

The boy's eyes were glazed over, hand clenched tightly around his fork. "That's horrid," he whispered. "I knew Scrimgeour had a secret police - everyone knows it, they're in the news constantly - but I can't believe . . . "

"You ought not believe everything Rita Skeeter and her news column tells you," Tom shook his head. "And I doubt your Uncle has been exposing you to many politics, outside that involving his precious drill company."

"Why are you telling me all of this?" Harry said tiredly, his appetite gone.

Tom blinked, blue eyes softening. "I've told you, Harry. We're very similar. Both in our background, and in spirit. I believe you have potential for doing something great."

"Great? Like you? You've . . . you've murdered a man. You have an entire gun-wielding gang at your beck and call. Just because you're all troubled and misunderstood, doesn't mean what you do is _right."_

Riddle's voice was steady and patient. "I know you have seen many terrible things and have been unthinkably abused. You think you know right from wrong, but you _must_ understand. What's good . . . isn't always what's _right._ Sometimes, decisions have to be made in order to protect those you care about."

Harry blinked slowly, feeling his breath falter.

Tom let out a breath. "It's no use talking sense into you like this, not when it's begun to kick in," he pushed his plate aside. "I promised your Uncle we would be spending the night together, but I have much to do and cannot have you underfoot. While I think your innocence endearing, it's also quite the hindrance." Tom tipped his head. "Trust me, this is a much kinder fate than the alternative."

"W - what?"

"I must apologize, my love. Every sip you've taken of that water has slowly increased the concentration of a sleeping aid I asked Madam Puddifoot to put in your drink." Harry's head jerked, betrayal flashing in those bright irises. He looked around desperately for help. Tom leaned in to whisper conspiratorially.

"Don't worry, Valentina and her patrons know how to keep a secret. She's one of those contacts I was telling you about. The poor woman used to live in a house of domestic abuse, until she killed her husband in self-defense with a kitchen knife. She was nearly incarcerated for second-degree murder, but I protected her from this, giving her a new life. Valentina seems to have found her passion." Harry dazedly looked at the woman, who was laughing with a group of tittering waitresses. "Even though she no longer believes in love, she's still willing to help others find the illusion."

The word _'love'_ ricocheted in Harry's mind. In the candlelight, Tom's eyes looked bright and beautiful, the shadows flickering over his handsome features. He looked . . . resplendent.

"You . . . you know?" Harry slurred, bringing his head to the table. "You're very easy to like, too."

Tom smiled indulgently. "Thank you, darling."

"Don't make me regret it."

Tom's laugh resembled a choir of angels, echoing and rich. A large hand brushed gently over his eye lids, closing them. The warm touch lingered. "Never."

With that sweet, breathy whisper in his ear, Harry fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**

 ** _In the next installment_ By the Throat **

* * *

**Notes:**

Any glaring plot holes are likely to be filled in the next couple installments. If you have any comments or critques, I'd love to hear them.


	4. The Renegade

_**Grab life by the throat**_

 _ **and squeeze**_

 _ **before it grabs you by the neck**_

 _ **and breaks it**_

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **The Renegade**

 _ **Saturday**_

"Oh, good. You're awake."

Harry moaned, his head fuzzy and vision blurred. He felt as though he'd been beat over the head with a hammer. He wasn't sure how long he'd been sleeping, though it had been fitful and unending. "W - what time is it?"

The man checked his pocket watch. "You've slept through the night and most of this morning. It is now sunrise," his lips pursed. "In retrospect, the dosage I gave you might have been a bit high for someone of your stature."

The words were nearly too soft for Harry to understand. "Wha - what?" Harry accepted his glasses, sitting up. A white leather seat crinkled beneath him. "Where are we?" It appeared as though they were in a long, metal tube with circular tables, a narrow aisle and several empty seats. The windows were small, but outside he could see the iridescent lining of orange-tinted clouds.

"We're nearly to our destination," Tom said vaguely, glancing back at his newspaper. The bureaucrat was sitting across from Harry in a new, black suit, the collar popped. His legs were crossed, a cup of tea balance on his knee. "If look down, you might see the Balkan mountain range."

A moment passed before this information registered. Harry clenched the armrests in panic, gaping out the window. "Nearly - _are we in the air?"_

Tom took an idle sip. "Quite. I have business in Bulgaria that must be attended to."

"B - but - "

Blue eyes peered at him. "Don't tell me you're afraid of heights? You've been flying unaware for a full three hours, and no harm has come to you," Harry sensed an unspoken 'yet'.

The boy floundered, unsure which raging question to adress first. "Bulgaria? That's - a bit far, isn't it? My uncle said - "

"That you had to return by Monday. And you will. Are you that excited to return 'home'? Is my company not stimulating enough?" He said with mock hurt.

Harry tactfully ignored this. " _Why_ are you taking me to Bulgaria?"

"I have tracked my runaway friend to his childhood home near a small village named Crivina. I've also decided to take a much-needed break, before the upcoming elections take up my schedule."

Harry dismissed this last part. "What traitor? Do you mean Karkaroff?" Harry frowned, trying to remember the events of the night before. "What was the point in knocking me out if you couldn't even catch the man?"

"Karkaroff wasn't the traitor I was dealing with last night."

The boy was dubious. "You need more loyal followers, Tom, if they're betraying you left and right."

"Don't I know it," Tom huffed a breath. He brushed his brown hair back tiredly, and Harry noted a deep wrinkle on his forehead. It was rather humanizing, considering Tom's otherwise flawless features. "While you were changing out of those horrid hand-me-downs - "

Harry shifted awkwardly, reminded of his current, opulent - if not slightly wrinkled - attire. He was certain he looked horribly dishevelled after being drugged, carted about and . . . what, carried? . . . into a bloody airplane. Feeling a blush creep onto his features, he forced his train of thought back to Tom's words. " - Peter took the liberty of _borrowing_ something else from my personal effects."

He tried to piece the conversation together. "What did he steal?"

Tom waved a hand, setting aside his teacup and newspaper. "Just a priceless replica of the human hand carved into silver."

"Is it . . . " Harry hedged, feeling slightly out of his depth. "Important?"

"Hm, no. Priceless, like I said, but merely decorative. I suspect, like a greedy magpie, Peter thought it _shiny,"_ he sneered, dabbing delicately at a splotch on his bottom lip. "Theft is theft, and Peter's betrayal was not to be tolerated."

Harry's green eyes were shining warily in the dancing rays of light. "What did you _do_ to him?"

"I did not kill him," the man said, though he seemed regretful. "Peter has proved himself useful in the past, if not . . . fickle. Did you know, in ancient times, thieves would lose a hand for her crimes?"

It didn't take long for his message to cross. "You . . . cut off his hand?" The poor boy looked fit to be ill.

Tom merely smirked. "Seemed fitting."

Fifteen minutes later, they had landed in an empty field. Their pilot silently approached them. He was a jagged-tooth, sneering man, the top buttons of his uniform undone to reveal wiry chest hair. "Here are the coordinates as you requested, and the firearm," the man handed over a black box. Tom nodded gratefully, removing a rectangular electronic and a cloth-covered holster. He fixed it onto his belt.

"Is that . . . a glock in your pocket?" Harry stared at the bulge by Tom's hip. The man jerked at the question, before giving a shark-tooth grin.

"Or am I just happy to see you?"

Harry's throat tightened. "Seriously, Tom. What the fuck?"

 _"Language."_ The man removed the black gun, the weight comfortable in his palm. "I'm a crime lord, darling," his finger caressed the trigger. "It's only natural that I'm armed and dangerous."

* * *

Thick trees blew about them, the sun barely visible through the tall branches. Sticks and leaves crunched under his shoes as Harry followed Tom over moss-covered stones. The colonnade of trees grew narrower, and the sounds of life were not far. Blue blossoms could be seen every few yards, swaying above the forest floor. The cornflowers, ethereal in their beauty, resembled the fabled will o' the wisps.

Sinking his hands into his large trouser pockets, his hair sticking up haphazardly, Harry looked roguish and wild. Tom wasn't much better. He looked like a wolf-raised man, back hunched as if prepared to launch himself at the nearest unsuspecting prey.

"Are we there yet?" Harry burst out, scratching a bug-bite on his neck.

A slow smirk stretched across Tom's lips. "Just be patient, love. Ah, there - look up ahead," he pointed a long finger, tugging Harry behind a bush. Up the path was a small child, chasing a moth. Tan hands read forward to grab it, but the creature quickly fled from her grasp. Giggling, she hiked up her skirt and padded across the underbrush, stray leaves crunching beneath her sandalled feet. Her hair was long - nearly to the bottom of her dress, which was hand-made with little rosebuds stitched along the hem.

"Follow the child," Tom whispered in his ear, the warm puff of air sending shivers down Harry's spine. "She will lead us to the village."

They watched young girl dance happily, before a voice called from afar. _"Louisa!"_ In a language unknown to Harry, the parent rapidly instructed her to return home. With one last attempt at catching the bug, Louisa twirled on her heel and pranced toward the the small, haphazardly built townsquare situated in the deep valley.

"Are we visiting the village?" Harry asked curiously. "It's just, I don't really know the language."

"Crivina is not our true destination. Karkaroff's home should only a little bit away, due east."

Harry's brow raised. _"Should_ be _?_ Do you . . . not _know_ where we're going?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I know everything," the man surreptitiously checked the global positioning devise in his pocket. It was square and equipped with several buttons, the screen flashing every few strides. A mile or so later, they finally stumbled upon the shack.

Igor's childhood home was a depressing place, completely squalor and covered with vines. "Thisis it?" Harry asked. "It's . . . so quiet."

The faded white-wash was smeared with grime, the siding invaded by thorny vines, tangled together like Harry's hair. The yard filled with bright yellow dandelions and a number of overgrown weeds. Holding a finger to his lips, Tom forced open the back gate. The rusted hinges squeaked pitifully in response to the pressure of his hand, echoing over the silence of the yard. Painted in shades of brown and grey, the scene was creased and faded like a copy of an old photograph. Not even the wind dared to interrupt this eerie repository. Harry followed warily, feeling the dried grass crunch beneath his shoes. He flinched at the scuttle of paws, a small mouse scuttling past.

The mouse slipped in through a hole in the wall. There was dead silence, and then - _"Filthy vermin!"_ A heavily accented voice shouted, followed by a volley of gun shots.

Tom shoved Harry to the ground, tugging the gun from it's holster. "Stay quiet and out of the way," he hissed, eyes flashing. "Karkaroff may be a coward, but is he is also easily triggered. Both metaphorically and literally."

"No _shit."_

A hand shoved him down by the scalp. "Hush."

Tom slowly crept up to the shack, holding his gun aloft. Harry held his breath, feeling helpless. How in the world had he gotten himself into this? Why couldn't Tom have just left him on the plane? Said man slipped through the front door, disappearing from Harry's sight. The gunfire began immediately.

"Fuck this." Harry went to his feet and grabbed the nearest thing - a long, bent piece of gutter pipe. Watching the dirty windows for any sign of movement, Harry snuck around to the back door. Weeds tickled his ankles, but Harry ignored the itch.

Voices drifted outside through a broken window. Harry risked a glance, seeing the carcass of the mouse the floor. Tom had Karkaroff on his knees, the latter's gun on the other side of the room. Igor was a tall, wiry man with crooked yellow teeth and an overgrown goatee. He might've been attractive in his day, but the wrinkles in his skin and the ugly, faded tattoos crawling up his arms ruined it.

" - disappointed me greatly."

Sweat dripped from the man's forehead. " _Ebi se,_ Riddle."

"I think not, Karkaroff," Tom responded smoothly. "You're not my type, thankfully."

"Disgusting faggot _._ Severus' poison should have killed you!"

"Oh, so you knew Severus, did you?"

Karkaroff barked a laugh. "Better than _you._ Severus and I met during a school exchange program several years ago. His father and mine, they were of the same breed _._ Horrific bastards."

"As was mine, Karkaroff," Tom lowered his gun ever-so slightly, looking tired. "But that is no excuse. Did you know of Severus' assassination attempt beforehand?"

"No. I knew he worked for Dumbledore and when I saw him creeping about . . . I simply let the events unfold. I was disappointed to see that Severus was unsuccessful, but once that whorish little snitch gave Severus' description, I ran." Harry frowned at the man's comment. From Tom's sudden, warning step forward, the bureaucrat wasn't too fond of it either. "I knew you would not let me go unpunished for my . . . inattention."

"You were right. Are there any other traitors among my inner circle? There is no point in lying. You are already on death's row."

The Bulgarian grinned darkly. "Yet the satisfaction is still mine."

Tom shook his head, disgusted. "You betrayed me, Karkaroff. I took you in, I gave you a _family_ after old 'Officer' Moody killed your half brother."

"Antonin made his own decisions. And Moody is dead, now, no thanks to you," Igor spat. "Say hello to them for me in hell." The man lunged for his gun.

Moving faster than he ever remembered, Harry shoved open the door and brought the pipe down onto Igor's head. There was a sickening _crack,_ and with a strangled noise, Karkaroff fell forward onto his face. Tom instantly brought his gun to Igor's skull, watching for any signs of awakening.

"I told you to stay outside," the man said, eyes narrowed.

"No, you told me to stay quiet. Which I was," Harry breathed heavily, a noticeable tremble in his limbs. "And which you should be thankful for."

"I would have shot him. My reaction time is impeccable, Harry, do not doubt that."

"I don't doubt your abilities, _'armed and dangerous'._ I'm sure you would've handled yourself fine."Harry tossed aside the pipe and spat at the downed traitor, the glob of mucus glistening on Igor's pale cheek. _"That_ was for me, in retaliation for all the times I've ever been called a whore."

Tom's eyes sparkled. _"Moya lyubov, kraseev si."_ Green eyes blinked incomprehendingly. "Remind me never to get on your bad side. Now, shall I put Igor out of his misery? You may want to turn around. Unless . . . ?"

"Killing is still bad, Tom," Harry reminded, though he turned around all the same.

"It helps to think of it as extermination, ridding the world of vermin," His words were almost idle. This time, when the gunshot sounded and something wet splattered against his ankles, Harry did not flinch.

* * *

Hermione sneezed as she entered the front hall of the Burrow. Ron had ordered Indian food again, it seemed. Without his mother to cook dinner, the boy was utterly helpless.

"Hermione? That you?" Came Ron's voice from the living room. "Back already?"

Removing her denim over-jacket, Hermione absentmindedly hung it across the staircase banister, freeing her hair. "Yes, it's me. How's the curry?" She crossed into the television room, the electronic box lighting up the otherwise dimly lit space. The volume was low, a soft murmur in the background.

Ron shrugged, smiling as Hermione pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. She tasted a smudge of curry on his cheekbone. "No worse than usual," he said, forking a curry-soaked broccoli. "I saved you some."

"Not much," she pointed out the near-empty food cartons. Toeing off her black heels, Hermione lay down beside her lounging boyfriend and placed her aching feet onto his lap. As if by command, he began kneading the soles, smirking at her grateful moan.

Hermione Granger was a curvy, bookish woman with curly black hair and horn-rimmed glasses. She wore a long black dress and grey stockings, making the dark pigment of skin even richer.

Ron was lean and pale, with more freckles than he could count. Red hair ran in the family, though his eyes were blue, rather than the warm brown of his six brothers. "Did you take a shower?" Hermione asked, scenting their sandalwood shampoo.

Ron smirked, cheeks filled with food. "Is that really such an oddity?"

"It is. Give me some of that broccoli."

Ron speared it reluctantly and slipped it between her lips. "You look sexy in that dress," he whispered, kissing her firmly. As his eyes slipped shut, Hermione snatched his bowl of food and leaned back, grinning cheekily. "Thief."

"I'm hungry," she defended. "Your brothers ate all the food at Severus' funeral. I really wish you came with."

The man shifted uncomfortably. "Snape and I never got along."

"Even the _twins_ went. And Severus hated them."

Ron humphed. "If I know Snape, he wouldn't have wanted everyone to make a big fuss out of his . . . demise, anyways." He bit his tongue quickly, noticing Hermione's sudden disapproving glare. "Sorry."

Hermione covered her face, appetite gone. "God, it was just awful."

"Talk me through it again."

"It's just, there's nothing else _to_ say. Severus and I, we had it all rehearsed out - it'd be a quick in-and-out, he'd administer the toxin and I'd deliver it to Riddle. Simple."

"So what happened?"

"Bloody _Greyback_ happened," it was rare that the stoutly religious girl sweared. "He appeared out of nowhere, I swear."

Ron grimaced. "That monster can't possibly be human."

"He's human, alright, just a sadistic bastard. He smacked Severus around and dragged him off - and then - " she choked off.

Ron placed a hand on her leg. "At least we found the body."

"Stuffed into a dumpster, like rubbish! They didn't even bother hiding it. Almost as if they're _proud."_

"Taken out by his own poison," Ron shook his head in disbelief. "Did he suffer?"

Hermione worried her lip. "H- his poison was supposed to be torturous. That's the one thing I didn't approve of. Still, I simply don't understand, how did Riddle find out? We had everything planned to a 't'." the girl said helplessly. "I can't help thinking about _what went wrong_. Albus said it's survivor's guilt. Unfortunately, that's not an unfamiliar sensation to me."

She was thinking on when she first met Ron, six years earlier. Young Hermione had come home from school one day to find her house empty; all their pictures had vanished from the walls, papers strewn across the floor, her father's books torn to shreds. Hermione had been horrified. She'd been so little and naive- only eleven - yet smart enough to know they wouldn't have left like _that_ on their own violation.

Hermione called the police right away, but they said nothing, did nothing. They had no leads, no evidence of foul play, and no choice but to send her away for 'her own safety'. She'd been placed with the Weasley's, the patriarch of whom had worked at the Ministry for years. The first year was grueling and miserable, but slowly, Hermione came to terms with her parent's mysterious disappearance.

Even so, Albus Dumbledore himself kept her updated on any leads.

So far, the best they could figure was the Southern Hemisphere, based on some odd documents found intermixed among her father's torn papers. Albus suspected Riddle and his league of criminals, but there was little proof.

Hermione leaned her head back, teeth clenched with frustration.

Her parents had been good, loving people - she knew they couldn't have done anything to anger Riddle. They _had_ no connection to Riddle's crime rig. Or did they? Could malpractice have lead to trouble with the law? Her parents were exemplary at their job, but nothing else could explain it.

"We'll find your parents, 'Mione. We _will_. No news is good news, right?"

"Unless they're being tortured into insanity by Lestrange this very second. I'd prefer them dead than suffering. At least then . . . I would _know._ I wouldn't be trapped in this endless cycle of _maybes_ and _what ifs_."

"Hermione, love," Ron grabbed her chin, expression fierce. "There is no use in wondering 'what if'. The best you can do . . . the best _we_ can do is figure out how to stop it from happening again. We can't change the past, but we can alter the future."

Brown eyes blinked. "When'd you get so smart?" Hermione asked softly, leaning over to press her forehead against his.

"I'm just underappreciated," he smirked. Hermione hummed, pressing closer. "I love you," Ron said breathlessly. "I love you, and there's nothing in this world that could take me away from you."

Hermione laughed grimly. "Don't make any promises."

A crash came from the front hall. Ron jerked up, eyebrow arching. "Mum?"

"God, I hope not!" came a worried cadence. "I'm not _that_ old. It's Dora. Sorry about your umbrella stand."

The Burrow had been a safe house for longer than Hermione knew. It was a rendezvous point for the Order, a midpoint, a neutral setting - needless to say, it wasn't odd to find the occasional Order member stumble their way through the front door.

Hermione pulled herself off Ron, sitting down primly, her dark skin concealing a blush. "We're in the living room, Dora."

Tonks shakily made her way into the lounge, her dyed hair sticking up as though she'd been electrocuted. "Jesus, Tonks, it looks as though you've been through the churner." Ron frowned. "Mum isn't here, if that's who you're looking for."

The young woman raked a hand through her hair, plopping heavily onto an armchair. "Who I really need to speak to is Albus, but I can't find the old bugger anywhere. I've called his office, his house, I've even tried his brother's - "

"Today was Severus funeral," Hermione interrupted. "He's been there all day."

Tonks blanched. "I forgot. Damn."

"Well, it was rather sudden. And you weren't close to Severus, were you?"

Her only response was a one-armed shrug. "I still would've gone. To pay my respects, and for the free food." Ron smirked in appreciation.

 _"Well,"_ Hermione crossed her arms. "Albus, Molly, Minerva and the others stayed behind after the proceedings. I couldn't stay any longer. I felt . . . like an intruder." Ron clutched her hand.

"I still need to find Dumbledore," Tonks said distractedly. "It's very important."

"I suppose I could give you the address," Hermione said slowly, reaching towards the coffee table for a paper and pen. She sketched the Cokeworth address quickly. "What's this news?"

From within her leather jacket, Tonks removed a small note. The small, prim handwriting was nearly illegible. "I got a message from my aunt," she flapped it idly.

Hermione stiffened. "Not Bellatrix?"

"God, no!" Tonks started. "My Aunty Cissy. It was very odd. There was a list of instructions in my inbox at work, telling me to go my mother's house. My mum wasn't home, but there was a letter stuffed under her doormat."

"Why so many channels?" Hermione interrupted.

Dora scrunched her face. "Something to do with security. The message wasn't even from her, really. Her husband, Lucius, had information on Riddle."

 _"Malfoy,"_ Ron hissed. He'd been quiet until now, sitting in bewildered silence. "You can't trust anything that slimy git tells you."

"I would never have trusted it," Tonks admitted. "Except, Aunty Cissy . . . she's always kept contact with us, even after everything that happened to Lucius. I feel obligated to at least give her a chance."

Hermione frowned. "What's the message?"

 _"Harry Potter has been compromised."_

"That's all?"

"If you knew who Potter was, you wouldn't be so hasty with your dismissal," Tonks said grimly.

Ron straightened, curious. "Well, who's this Potter fellow, then?"

"Sirius Black's godson."

They exchanged a glance, realization dawning with a horrid sense of dread.

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**

 ** _In_ The Harlot**

* * *

 **Notes:** **Phonetic Translations**

 ** _Ebi se_ \- Fuck you**

 ** _Moya lyubov, kraseev si_ \- My love, you are beautiful/handsome**

 **I'm not fluent in the language what-so-ever and I've never visited either Crivina or Sofia. If I get any of the information wrong, I'd really appreciate assistance. Thank you!**


	5. The Harlot

_**Grab life by the throat**_

 _ **and squeeze**_

 _ **before it grabs you by the neck**_

 _ **and breaks it**_

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **The Harlot**

The scent of smoke and burning flesh tickled Harry's nostrils. He supposed, after everything he'd seen, burning down Karkaroff's home and cremating the body wasn't _that_ horrific. Harry was more concerned about the fire spreading to that little village, Crivina. They had made it back to the plane, and the thick smoke was already visible above the treeline.

"I'm sure an anonymous tip will be made to the local fire brigade," Tom said idly, gesturing for the pilot to bring down the airstair. "As for the _why_ , leaving evidence is the folly of every captured criminal."

Harry glanced down at the blood staining the hem of his pants.

"We'll get you new clothes," the man amended quickly.

Entering the small bathroom, Harry slid on a pair of calf-length trousers and the collared shirt. They were several sizes too large, but Harry felt more comfortable in these than the wrinkled and stained Armani suit. Besides, Tom's legs looked fantastic in slacks.

The plane soon landed on a private air strip, just outside of Sofia. They rented a car from a nearby warehouse and Marcus drove them into the city. Despite his crude disposition, Marcus was an exceptional geographer.

"Where are we going now?" Harry asked curiously, peering out at the city.

The elder tapped his knee impatiently, eyes fixated on a distant building. "An acquaintance of mine lives in a nearby penthouse. We'll be spending the next couple nights there, if all goes to plan."

Harry tipped his head in appreciation. "A penthouse? Fancy."

"Yes. Krum is quite well-to-do. Perhaps it has something to do with his celebrity."

Suddenly, it clicked. "Krum . . . Viktor Krum? The football player? _That's_ your acquaintance?"

Tom smirked. "His portrayal on television is quite exaggerated, I assure you."

Flint dropped them off at a pair of glass doors.

The receptionist was skeptical at first, but Tom was quick to flash her a charming smile. They spoke in soft Bulgarian for a moment while Harry stared around the building. The apartment complex was really quite opulent, with golden fixings and marble floors.

"Mister Krum is on the thirty-seventh floor," she said finally, reaching over to the dial phone. "He is with a guest. I will inform him of your arrival."

Pink lips quirked. "No need. Viktor loves surprises."

Grasping Harry's hand, Tom lead Harry to the elevator. The walls were two-way mirrors, giving Harry and Tom a gorgeous bird's-eye view of Sofia. "I've never been outside of England before," Harry said quietly, pressing his forehead to the glass. "Even with the - uh, you know, revenge plot - this is better than I could have imagined."

Hot lips brushed against his ear. "I'm glad." Tom's voice seemed to have dropped several decibels. Another shiver went down Harry's spine.

Just in time, the elevator dinged. Tom have a regretful smile, and stepped into the hall.

Blue eyes surveyed the doors, hearing muffled murmuring from room _3700._ With three solid knocks, Tom rapped on the door. The peephole darkened momentarily, a pleasant exclaim sounding through the wood. "Tom! I did not expect you," the door swung open.

Viktor Krum was perhaps a bit taller than Harry expected, thick-necked and muscular, though he held himself with a surprising grace. He was also naked from the waist down. "Obviously," Tom sneered at Viktor's lack of dress. The athlete grinned roguishly. "But the blame is entirely mine. Our trip was rather sudden."

"Our?"

Tom stepped aside to reveal the brightly flushing Harry. VIktor's dark eyes lit up, taking in the tousled hair and pale skin. "Hello, pretty," the man's voice was deep and sonorous. He stepped forward, the thin fabric of his underpants revealing the muscular definition of his thighs. Viktor captured Harry's hand, bringing it to his lips. His five-o'clock shadow was rough and scratchy. "I am Viktor Krum. And you are?"

Before Harry could answer, a sibilant voice drifted from the apartment.

"Viktor _, cher?_ Who is here?"

Tom pulled Harry into the apartment, away from the flirtatious football player. A slim, blonde woman was sitting on the kitchen counter in nothing but her undergarments. Her eyes were a striking blue, matching her lace panties. She unabashedly slipped to the floor, set down her coffee cup and swayed across the room. "You didn't tell me you were expecting guests," she spoke in a smooth French accent, red lips stretching in a grin. "I believe we've met, Monsieur Riddle, no?"

"Madame Delacour, always a joy," Tom accepted Fleur's _faire la bise._ "Or is it Weasley, now? I did not expect you in Bulgaria. Isn't your husband . . . ?"

"William is in Romania visiting his brother, the zookeeper," she said dismissively. "I thought I would take a day trip to visit an old friend."

"'Friend', indeed," Tom pursed his lips, peering darkly at Viktor. "Perhaps my companion and I will find other arrangements for tonight, if you two are to be having relations . . ."

Fleur shook her head, blonde hair fluttering. "Do not be so melodramatic, Thomas. William expects me back this afternoon. The guest room is perfectly fine for you two, I did not use it," her smirk was directed toward Viktor. "Who is _your '_ friend'?" The words were mocking, but her curiosity was genuine.

Harry awkwardly shrunk under the gaze of the three gorgeous human specimen. He was beginning to feel a tad insecure. "Do not be shy," Viktor said in amusement, pressing his hand to Harry's back, a searing hot pressure.

"H - Harry. Harry Evans."

"It's a true pleasure," Fleur's smile gained a soft edge. She pulled her gaze away, drawing her hands to her waist. "Viktor, you should get dressed and introduce Tom and Harry to the local landmarks."

She was quite bossy, but Viktor seemed used to it. "It's only polite," he agreed. "And you?" Viktor reached toward her. "You will be leaving?"

"I should," Fleur reached up to stroke Viktor's jaw. "I will miss you, _cher_."

"Even as you bed that - that filthy _common_ man?" he spat, large hands clenching her sides.

The blonde closed off, her warm eyes chilling with an alarming was startled at how quickly the tension grew. Fleur and Vikor seemed so . . . charming, before.

"This is not a topic to engage in among guests, Viktor," she said sharply. "We will speak of it later."

"You are leaving me! We will speak of it now, or never!"

Harry turned to Tom, eyes desperate. Tom gently pulled him from the bickering infidels, but their voices were gaining volume. Fleur's sultry voice turned shrill, much like the cry of a banshee.

"My marriage is not your concern, Viktor. I do not comment when you _fuck_ your admirors, man or woman, often many at once - "

"In true French fashion, ironically," Tom whispered, rolling his eyes.

"Those rumors are not true!" Viktor said vehemently, dark eyes glinting. "I have had many chances to be with others, but I have been celibate since your _farce_ of a marriage. And you are one to speak! Does your _husband_ know of your dalliances, or is he too _dim-witted_ to realize it?"

Fleur pushed him away. "William is a fine man! But _he_ is not the issue. _You_ are. My choices are _mine,_ and celibacy was _yours._ I do not dictate your actions, so do not presume to dictate mine!" She stormed off into the bedroom, Viktor following soon after, growling in rapid Bulgarian.

Tom's face was expressionless, though there was a tick in his jaw. Harry was unsure if the man was amused, frustrated, or disgusted. His words made Harry frown. "Viktor may be attracted to your body," he said vehemently. "But he will always be devoted to Fleur."

"She's - she's married, isn't she?"

A tan hand brushed back a stand of hair, the man visibly calming himself. "Unfortunately for Viktor, yes. Fleur is well-known in France for her beauty. She reminds me of my father; marrying below her status and stringing along a number of lovestruck fools for her own amusement. Viktor is not her only lover. Her current husband - not her first, either - is an archeologist that has made many discoveries about ancient Egyptian civilizations. In a strange turn of events, his parents are known members of Dumbledore's secret police. Despite my disgust, this makes Fleur a prime ally."

Harry frowned. "I thought it was Scrimgeour's police?

"Dumbledore may refuse to run for office, but we all know who is really running the show."

Harry was quiet for a moment. Somehow, everything all came back to the Order. He tried to change the subject. "What is your view on Viktor?"

Tom waved a hand. "He is merely another hapless slave to celebrity and repute. A lifetime in the spotlight has gone to his head. Not only is he an athlete, but his father is a high ranking official in the bulgarian Ministry. Disregarding his hedonistic pleasures, Viktor is a loyal man with many connections. He dabbles in policy on occasion, and has sworn to me that the Bulgarian ministry will support whomever I manipulate into office."

An hour later, Harry learned that Viktor Krum was also a tour guide in his spare time.

Viktor was visibly sullen after the confrontation with his lover, but remained stoically polite to Harry and Tom. Harry was glad the man didn't blame them for triggering his and Fleur's altercation. Any sign of flirtation or charm had fled, leaving him brooding and quiet. His hood was up, hiding him from potential paparazzi.

On the surface, Sofia was just like any other city, with bustling sidewalks and sirens wailing in the distance. They walked past a number of large, architectural buildings, a soft breeze rustling through their hair. With Tom's warmth beside him, it felt a bit like a date. The entire situation was novel to Harry. Murder in the morning and sight-seeing in the eve? It was almost hysterical.

As for Viktor, his English wasn't perfect, and when he slipped into Bulgarian - often just to swear as he tripped over the curb - Tom was quick to translate. "This is the Russian Church of Saint Nicholas, the Miracle-Maker," he pointed out a green-roofed building surrounded by tulips. "The locals call Nicholas 'the Sandman.'" The sun glinted off it's golden domes. "His remains are kept inside of a sarcophagus. If you leave a letter to Saint Nicholas, it is said that your wishes may come true."

They crossed the street, noticing a number of artists and dissenters standing on soap-boxes. "This is the Bar Kristel garden," Viktor said boredly.

Tom blinked. "Isn't this close to where Stefan Stambolov was - "

"Attacked by a saber, yes. His statue is nearby."

"Who is Stefan St - er, I can't pronounce it," Harry admitted.

Almost absently, Tom reached over to grasp Harry's wrist. They forced their way through Kristel garden, ignoring the crazed protests and lewd glances sent their way. Eventually, the three stared up at the large statue of Stefan's face, a jagged slash marring his stone forehead.

"Stambolov was a politician from the late 1800s, known for his dislike of the Russians," Tom's lips twitched. "He's often compared to Otto Von Bismark in his . . . often authoritative pursual of independence. This lead to his descent into paranoia and madness, and soon after his resignation, he was assassinated. On a carriage ride past this garden, he was viciously attacked by guns and knifes," a cruel smirk crossed his lips. "When he died, Stambolov was quite disfigured."

Harry tipped his head. "Looks like an unpleasant fellow,"

"He was," Viktor and Tom said in unison.

"Despite his disposition, Stambolov did some good, as well," Tom's grip on Harry tightened minutely.

Breaking the silence, Harry's stomach growled. Blue eyes blinked with amusement before turning to Viktor. "Well, Viktor. What do you recommend for elevenses?"

* * *

While all was well in Bulgaria, a rat in London was suffering.

"Peter, darling?" a light voice called out through the screen door.

There was no response. A clock ticked in the background as Enid Pettigrew declared her intent. "I'm coming in, you'd best be dressed!"

Peter's mother was a short, curvy woman, dressed in a floor-length floral dress. Her hair dark blond, green eyes bright with youth despite her age.

Enid stepped inside, brow furrowing as she took in the dark ambience. Her son's home was more a hovel than 'home'; the small, two-bedroom townhouse lie in a segregated part of Ilkeston, made of brick and mortar. The elderly woman swept a hand over a dusty bookshelf, tsking idly. The pile of comic books Peter kept on the coffee table was stained with a spilt cup of tea. On the mantel was a picture of Peter and his old friends, cracked down the middle as if it'd been thrown against a wall and hastily replaced.

"Peter?" she called out, again. It wasn't like her son to leave the house unlocked. Just like his father, Peter was a nervous, paranoid man. And for good reason.

There was a muffled sound from up the stairs. Enid frowned, fingers clenching around a small statuette of a lion. At the very least, if the house had been broken into, she could clobber the would-be robber upside the head. She crept up the steps, the floorboards creaking. The foreign sounds became louder - Enid soon recognized them as pained whimpers. With a _thump,_ the lion figurine fell to the floor.

"My lord, Peter, what've you done?"

Her son was atop the bed, blood everywhere, staining the tilled sheets. Peter was sweating profusely, a cloth around his stump of a wrist. Enid rushed to her son's side, pressing a hand to his feverish forehead. "Mum," the man gurgled, his rheumy cheeks flushed.

"God, it's infected. I'm fetching a doctor," Stomach rolling, Enid went to the old dial-up phone in the corner, wondering why Peter hadn't called the hospital sooner.

"Don'!" Peter rasped, panic in his eyes. "Don' call no-one."

Enid stilled, finger poised over the nine. "Why? Who did this to you? Was it Riddle? I told you not to work with that man!"

" . . . he . . . I stole somethin' from him, ma," Enid gasped at Peter's delirious mumblings. "He sent me to his house to fetch a suit and I snuck into his office. I saw some p - papers, a letter to Thicknesse. Goyle c - caught me and I pretended to have stolen some stupid statue instead . . . Riddle took my hand for it," he waved the stump, a strike of pain going through him. "But . . . it . . . was worth it."

 _"Nothing_ is worth this, son," Enid said sharply. She remembered her husband, Hubert, and his ties to the Scottish drug cartel. Their marriage had been tumultuous, Hubert spending long nights doing who-knows-what, sometimes coming back with bullet wounds or worse. Enid would wait up for him, dreading the day a policeman came knocking at her door. Hubert eventually died from heart complications at the age of seventy, but often, Enid wondered if her life would be easier if Hubert had simply died when Peter was a baby. Peter took after her in many ways, but he took after his father in this.

She busied herself in reapplying the bandage that stemmed the stream of blood. "Who is Thicknesse?"

"A . . . politician," Peter rasped, wincing. "Riddle wants him to be Minister after . . . after they assassinate Minister Scrimgeour. Riddle wants the Order to be abolished, and for people like Fenrir and Bellatrix and Macnair - sadists, psychopaths, criminals - to reign free."

Enid was quiet. " . . . People like you, you mean."

Peter shut his hazel eyes, forcing back tears from years worth of regret. Seventeen years, to be exact, since he sold out Lily and James, put Sirius into jail and pushed away Remus. Since little Harry, who he'd never thought he'd see again, was left orphaned and forgotten.

"Yeah, mum. People like me."

* * *

Her hands were cold.

Trying in vain to warm them, Bella clenched them tightly in hers, the small hands tense and frigid. The child's damp face rested in the crook of her neck, a cold, button nose pressing into her jugular. "I'm sorry," she whispered, kissing the child's bald head. The smell of grass and fresh rainwater lingered, along with the faint scent of formaldehyde. Even after all these years, her daughter's delicate, waxen, perfect features were preserved. The child was dressed in a lace gown, the fabric frayed and dirt-ridden after seventeen years. "You would be such a beautiful woman. Rodolphus and I would have been so proud."

World-weary, Bella stared up despondently at the stars. "This is a lovely evening," her words slurred slightly. Starlight peeked through mist and shadow. Night birds hooted in the distance and buzzing crickets serenaded them. "Just, there - " she pointed up. "That's Canopus, apart of the Carina constellation. Carina. I always liked that name."

After a few moments of silence, she looked at the child desperately. "Please," she rasped, rocking her in her arms. "Please wake up. It's time to come home to mummy and daddy." Carina remained silent. Bella choked out a laugh, in sudden realization. "Mummy . . . mummy. I'd have been a horrid mum, but I - I would have killed anyone who dared upset you." Her expression darkened. _"Potter,"_ she spat. "Paid for his sins against you. I wish I was there to have seen the light leave his eyes. I wish I had killed his son - make him feel like _I_ felt.

"It will be an honor to kill Scrimgeour and dismantle that _pathetic_ order. I will kill Scrimgeour in your name." Tears began pouring down from her cheeks. She pulled herself up, wiping them in embarrassment, dirt smearing. "Look at me, I'm going soft." She sucked in a deep breath. "I love you, Carina. I always have and I always will." The wind began to blow a bit harder. Setting Carina carefully on a pile of mud, Bella went to her knees.

Brushing the dirt from her thighs, she hoisted herself up with the nearby iron shovel shoved vertically into the dirt. The gaping hole beside them seemed endless, though she knew a carefully carved pine casket lay open at the bottom. She refused to look at the gravestone, the words _Baby_ _Lestrange_ carved into the stone.

It had been nearly seventeen years, and she hadn't moved on. The abuse from Potter and the Longbottoms during her brief duration under the Order's care assured that Bella's body was in no condition to bear again. Carina had been a six-month-old fetus when she was miscarried, her stillborn body forcing itself out through Bellatrix's wrecked womanhood.

Wiping her nose, Bellatrix carefully opened Carina's doll-sized casket, the velvet lining cradling Carina's head. She pressed a kiss to Carina's forehead and shut the lid. In short, mechanical movements, she began filling the grave, fingers chilled as the grasped the metallic shovel handle. "There," she muttered once more, patting the dirt flat. "All tucked in."

In the distance, police sirens wailed.

She smiled, and pressed her fingers to the cool soil, whispering her last farewells.

"Mummy loves you."

* * *

 **_To be continued . . ._**

 ** _In_ The Puppetmaster**


	6. The Puppetmaster

_**Grab life by the throat**_

 _ **and squeeze**_

 _ **before it grabs you by the neck**_

 _ **and breaks it**_

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **The Puppetmaster**

 _ **Sunday**_

The reception room at St. Mungos was bustling with reporters of all types. At the head of the line was Xenophilius Lovegood, who shouted questions retaining to Sirius Black's supposed alter-ego, Stubby Boardman. A thin woman behind a desk labeled Inquiries scribbled on a parchment, trying her best to ignore the bedlam. Closest to Xenophilius, a dark-skinned man cradled his arm and a woman with a young boy on her lap were waiting patiently in heavily stuffed chairs.

The head of Law Enforcement barely paused as he glided through the hall, patients looking up at him in awe of the impressive bureaucrat. When he reached the fourth floor, Albus Dumbledore peered his head in on room four hundred fifty-seven. "Is he awake?" he asked the nurse, a short man named Michael MacDougall.

The man startled, leveling a dark stare at the officer. "He will be if you continue speaking so loudly," he hissed. "Sir, visiting hours are over - which you'd know if you bothered checking in."

Albus gave a sheepish smile. "I presumed visiting hours could be extended in these special circumstances."

"Respectfully, Officer Dumbledore, just because you've got the minister in your pocket doesn't mean you can intrude on hospital business whenever you so wish."

A grey brow arched. "Seeing as I'm already here, might I ask how he's recovering?"

The persistent, blue stare broke MacDougal down. "As well as possible," the doctor sighed, adjusting one of the monitors positioned above Sirius Black's ragged head, tracking the man's steady heartbeat. "He is horribly malnourished and weak, but healing. His mental state, however . . . well, that remains to be seen."

"I understand completely," Albus said, moving to stand beside Sirius' bed.

The doctor looked a bit disturbed. "Is he innocent, Albus? Of course, no matter your response, I will still deliver impartial treatment, but I somehow recall that he was said to be laughing when they took him away. His best friends had just died and his first thought was to attack another? If he's truly innocent, then why - "

"You'll find, my boy," Albus said softly. "That laughter is sometimes the only way to mask the pain within."

As their soft voices filled Sirius' hearing, he shifted sleepily underneath warm blankets.

"Oh, he's waking. That'll be all, Doctor MacDougal - might you leave the assessment, however? We'll need it for court. I plan on bringing these inhumane treatments to the Minister himself."

"You have ten minutes," the doctor warned, rolling his eyes. Albus waved his hand dismissively, sitting on the mattress beside Sirius.

Sirius smacked his lips, body weighed down by sleep. The taste and smell of bleach immediately assaulted him, and he peeked open his eyes, recognizing the long white beard and twinkling eyes peering down at him. "Dumbledore?" he croaked out.

Albus, wearing his customarily colorful suit, smiled fondly at his protégé. "Good to see you awake, Mr. Black,"

Sirius murmured a vague response, rubbing at his eyes. The man looked around, his vision uncomfortably overwhelmed by white. The pureness of the room against the officer's bright blue suit burned his eyes. "Where am I?"

Lips quirking slightly at Sirius' ruffled hair and bewildered eyes, Albus cleared his throat. "We're at St. Mungo's Hospital."

Realization flooded through Sirius eyes. "I'm . . . I'm not in prison? "

Albus tilted his head pityingly. "No, Sirius, you're free from that place. I daresay I've exhausted all the strings I could pull in this miraculous effort."

The man choked, rushing to quickly wipe his tears away. "'M sorry," he muttered, tears streaming down his face. "I never thought I'd hear your voice again."

"Don't, Sirius," Albus said gently, reaching over to grab his hands. "Don't be sorry. You're not there anymore." His gentle tone was far too much for the man. He broke out in soft cries, his shoulders shaking as he leaned forward desperately into his old boss's warm embrace. After a few long minutes, Sirius pulled away.

Albus cleared his throat. "Now, the Ministry, while allowing your early release on behalf of good behavior, has decided to place you on house arrest until you can prove you are mentally able to reenter society."

"House arrest?" the man paled. It was then Albus noticed how pallid he truly was. Sirius' cheekbones were sharp and sallow, his hair dry and slightly matted, though he appeared leagues better than when he'd arrived from prison.

Dumbledore looked sympathetic. "I'm sure Grimmauld Place can be fixed up swiftly, perhaps with the help of your old friend."

Sirius' expression suddenly lit up. "How is Remus?"

"Excellent, I'm sure. He's highly anticipating your reunion."

"Where'd he end up after . . . everything?"

The man paused, continuing slowly. "After that first year, Remus slowly distanced himself from the Order and his friends - understandable, of course. He relocated to Wales and we didn't hear much from him until a few years back. He met a woman; her name, if memory serves, is Patricia. They worked in a bookshop together and I hear she's several months expecting." Sirius blanched, eyes wide.

"Did they marry?" he asked. "Who . . . who was his best man?"

"They eloped, I believe," Albus said pensively. "You'll have to ask him all about it."

"And . . . Peter? I swear to you, I thought he had a hand in Lily and James' murders. I would never have attacked him without cause."

Albus frowned. "You nearly killed him, Sirius. Regardless, there is no proof of Peter's involvement in their unfortunate demise, and he has since lived a quiet life. As far as we are aware, at least."

Sirius nodded reluctantly and looked down at his hands in his lap. His head jerked up. "Harry," he breathed, eyes wild. "What about Harry?"

"If my math is correct, he's nearly eighteen years old. He likely doesn't even remember - "

"I want to see him," Sirius insisted, sitting up straighter. "He's my godson. I want to see him!" The heart monitor began to beep dangerously, the man's heart rate rising rapidly. Albus backed away as Doctor MacDougal sped into the room. "I want to see Harry!" the Black heir screamed, struggling as MacDougal brought ties around his wrists.

"He's my godson! I have a right! He's James' son! James. James!" Sobs tore through him as MacDougal fastened Sirius to the bed.

Scrambling for a syringe, the doctor pierced the needle into Sirius' arm. "Calm, Mr. Black," MacDougal soothed, removing the needle slowly. "There you are." Sirius slumped into the mattress, his mercurial eyes gleaming with tears.

The doctor narrowed his eyes at the head of Law Enforcement, who was lingering in the doorway. "Mr. Black has gone through far too much, and I won't have you bothering my patients any further!" he spat.

Albus' expression hardened.

He turned to Sirius who, while awake, was only barely. "I'll . . . I'll fetch Harry tomorrow. Mind, it'll be difficult to explain to his relatives the circumstances, but - "

"Just get me my godson," Sirius croaked, voice strained. "I don't care what it takes." The old man smiled consolingly, the twinkle in his eyes fading as Sirius fell into unconsciousness.

MacDougal glared. "He seems certain that he'll be taking custody of James' kid. You ought not make empty promises."

"You're skeptical of my abilities?" Dumbledore said coolly.

"Not yours. _His_. He is very unstable, as you just witnessed. There is little chance that Black is fit to be a father."

A wrinkled hand stroked frayed white hairs. "Or, perhaps, young Harry can heal him. Give him closure. Give him a _purpose."_

It was a very big 'what-if'. The doctor didn't seem convinced, though he left it at that. He was a medical doctor, after all, not a psychologist.

Albus had to admit, this was one of his less-thought-out plans. It was probably the quickest Albus had ever moved, filing the papers for Sirius' release after hearing young Miss Tonks' news the day before. Everyone thought him mad, releasing an insane man from jail to convince a mere _boy_ the difference from right and wrong. It was, indeed, impossible for most, but he was Albus Dumbledore.

And he would do whatever it took to keep Riddle from winning this war.

* * *

 ** _Monday_**

Waking from a pleasant dream that had already begun to flee from his memory, Harry relaxed into the loose, warm embrace around him.

The morning was a lazy one, and a late one for that matter, to make up for the chaos of yesterday.

Viktor had brought them to a gorgeous art museum but - in the process of ordering a coffee from the cafe - Viktor's hood fell down. He'd been recognized immediately.

The older man was surly and unhappy due to Fleur's absence and had not taken the sudden bombardment of paparazzi well. Viktor had knocked away the camera of one of his admirers, shattering the lense and spraying glass across the ground.

The rage in Viktor's dark, once soft eyes, was almost reminiscent of Tom.

It reminded Harry that everyone had the potential to be dangerous.

Tom didn't seem so menacing now, his hair delightfully messy and his long eyelashes dusting over pale cheeks.

Viktor only had one spare room, so - while Tom insisted Harry take the bed, and Harry insisted _Tom_ take it - they compromised. Despite his original protests, Harry didn't mind _too_ much.

Though, Harry flushed, it was a bit difficult angling his morning erection away from the other man. As he shifted awkwardly in Tom's grasp, the bureaucrat's arms tightened minutely. In sleep, he was horribly possessive.

Harry decided to let the man sleep; it had probably been a long while since Riddle last had a morning to himself. Just as Harry was about to slip back into unconsciousness, Tom's phone went off. The electronic vibrated, making the bedside table rattle. Tom tensed, waking suddenly, pulling away from Harry. Bringing a hand to his drowsy, darkened eyes, Tom rolled over and pressed the _answer_ button.

"Lucius? It's bound to be - god, seven in the morning in London. What do you want?" His voice was sharp and irritant - giving no clear indication that he'd just been fast asleep.

Harry, sitting so close to Tom, could easily hear Lucius' smooth voice on the other end. "There has been an . . . incident with my sister-in-law," the man said sneeringly.  
"There's a warrant out for her arrest."

"Bellatrix? Again?" Tom didn't sound horribly surprised. "What for?"

"Trespassing, evasion of law enforcement and . . . grave desecration. Assumed grave robbery."

 _"Again?"_

Harry felt ill. Did Bellatrix make a habit of digging up graves?

"Yes, well. She got away, but since the last time, the funeral director placed a security camera at the front gate. She was caught on camera with a shovel in hand. "

Tom ran an exhausted, exasperated hand down his face. "Bellatrix is usually far more discrete with her . . . visits."

"I believe she was inebriated at the time. Her husband noted a number of missing bottles from their wine cellar. It has been a very trying month for Bellatrix, what with the upcoming election," the man was pensive. "It is obvious that she desperately wishes for justice. It has been many, many years coming."

The crime lord was quiet for a moment. Harry was intrigued with the array of emotions flashing behind his blue eyes. There was concern, fondness, frustration - it seemed to Harry that Tom truly cared for his inner circle of criminals. They were his family. Harry was hit with the all too-familiar feeling of envy.

Tom and Lucius spoke in soft tones for a bit longer, ending with Tom slapping the phone shut. He rolled back over, eyes hooded and contrite. "We must leave soon," he said, lips barely moving. His heavy hand hovered over Harry's side, afraid to move any closer. In wakefulness, he wore a cool, expressionless mask and carried himself with impeccable self-control. "It is time for you to return to your uncle."

The boy was hit with a strike of - not quite betrayal, but something just as bitter. "Of course," he forced out, voice raw. "And for you to return to your . . . friends." Harry pondered for a second. "You've never actually told me what you do. Are you a politician, a hitman, a gang leader, a crime lord or an old-money aristocrat?"

Tom's lips quirked slightly. "Why can't I be all?"

"Well," Harry pulled himself up on one elbow. "You sweet-talk and manipulate businessmen like Mister Mason, only to kill and cut off the hands of your own followers."

"Is that all?"

"Not even the tip of the iceberg. Worse than murder and torture, you roofie poor, innocent underage boys and whisk them away on a fabulous 'vacation', introducing him to celebrities and culture and . . . and _happiness_ like a hero in some twisted romance novel." Eyes blazing, Harry prodded Tom's chest. "And now, you're dropping everything to help a woman who _dug up a bloody grave?_ Tell me, _Mister Riddle,_ who are you?"

The man was utterly silent after Harry's outburst, his face and even his eyes veiled with some unknown emotion. "I am a man," Tom started lowly. "With both a dark and a light side. Everyone has the potential for darkness. However, I am _not_ like everyone else. I have many talents and many obligations. The choices I make are not always good ones, but they are _mine._ I am both a killer - ruthless and merciless - and a lover. I am capable of fondness and familial love, which allows me to be fiercely loyal to - as you said - my 'followers'. Bellatrix has been a dear friend of mine for many years and, just as she would for me, I would put my life, my reputation, and my honor on the line for her." Harry's heart sunk slightly, wondering if - maybe - despite their interactions and the possessive attitude, Tom was straight after all. They hadn't known each other for more than a few days, while this 'Bellatrix' woman, married or not -

Almost as if reading his thoughts, Tom pressed closer, breaking every comfort zone either of them held. "But, I think, in answer to your question, I'm also a man who may consider opening his heart once more."

Harry decided to play this game. "T - to whom, I have to wonder, deserves that honor?"

His lips turned up at the corners. "Perhaps a poor, defenseless, underage boy with skinny limbs, dastardly messy hair, too-bright eyes and a horrid fashion sense. That is, _if_ the boy is willing to place aside all his morals and all his inhibitions to accept me for who I am. Darkness and all."

Harry's breath caught. "I - "

Tom's phone buzzed once more, shattering the moment.

Peeling his eyes away, slowly, painfully, Tom released a long breath, snatching the phone up. "It's Lucius, again," he murmured, eyeing the phone screen. "He forgot to mention that the ministry has announced a ball to be held in one month's time. All potential candidates for minister are to present themselves. Scrimgeour is to announce his fourth five-year term, while Thicknesse - "

The boy swallowed roughly, bringing his eyes to the ceiling. He did not want to listen to this. "I suppose, with Scrimgeour presenting himself in such a public setting, you'll be enacting on your . . . _plan_."he said darkly. The reality of Tom's occupation was a bitter pill to swallow.

Tom blinked, his previous soft expression hardening. "Yes. I will send Bellatrix to kill him," Harry grimaced. "I see that you are unhappy with me."

Harry shut his eyes. "Not with you, really. I'm just . . . reminded of my so-called 'innocence' and naivety. It's like you said - " Valentina's restaurant and spiked drinks seemed so long ago. "if I stayed with you, I'd only get underfoot. Listen. I turn eighteen in a month, and by then, I'll be of age. I'll be able to leave my uncle's, and Scrimgeour will - erm, be taken care of, and - " his words trailed off, filled with unanswered questions and hopeful potential.

"You're correct, of course. It would be best to wait." Tom said softly. "But not because you aren't wanted; to keep you safe."

"Quiet and out of the way," Harry parroted, trying to be soothed by Tom's assurance. "Despite my disobedience with Karkaroff, I've had seventeen years to practice it. Can't be too difficult," he tried to joke. It was weak, and only made Tom's frown deepen. As Harry tried to pull himself out of bed, Tom caught his wrist in a vice-like grip.

"I enjoyed spending these last few nights with you," his voice was breathy, his eyelids lowered in a seductive, darkly promising way. "But when you are eighteen, I would like to bed you properly," he brought his lips to Harry's pulse. Harry's vision went blurry, his breath speeding up at the slightly dry but strangely erotic pressure. The skin tingled, the nerves flaring like electricity, and Harry let out a strangled noise.

This . . . this was going to be a long month.

* * *

The nasty, guttural sensation of hungover-ness was unpleasantly familiar to Vernon Dursley.

The sound of a bird cawing just outside his bedroom window woke him quite abruptly from his unconsciousness. Startled, Vernon lifted his head and instantly regretted it. His eyes burned from the sunlight streaming into the bedroom. "Ugn," the man moaned. Even his _teeth_ hurt. He hadn't undressed before climbing into bed, and even _that_ simple task,he hadn't done correctly. Vernon was lying horizontally across the vertical bed, his cheek pressed into the edge of the mattress. Sweat and drool stuck to his face.

The man very nearly shouted for his nephew to help him into the bathroom, until he realized, the boy was still absent. With _Thomas Riddle,_ no less, the wealthy billionaire with - apparently - an unhealthy taste for young boys. Vernon, personally, couldn't understand it. He supposed Harry was pretty, in an effeminate way, but that was mostly due to his small stature and forcibly imposed starvation. Mister Mason was fond of Harry, however, and so . . . Vernon had no complaints.

Hazel eyes peeling open, Vernon expelled a long, irritated breath and forced himself out of bed. He staggered and nearly gagged on the rank smell. Alcohol was smeared across his front, an empty beer bottle left on the bedside table. Vernon quite deserved a long, hot shower, he thought.

Retrieving his brown bathrobe that hung behind the door, Vernon waddled into the hall. A quarter hour or so later, the air was filled with warm steam, the washroom tiles glinting with condensation. His reddened hand twisted the hot water faucet, a stream of clear liquid halting. Vernon stepped out of the shower, large rolls of fat wobbling and glistening like the blubber of a whale. Water droplets slipped from his mottled, trunk-like legs and onto the floor, echoing in the otherwise noiseless washroom. Running thick fingers through lank grey hair, Vernon shuffled to the sink.

The rollers and vials of makeup that had been so prominent in the years of his marriage were gone. A soft pang went through him as he recognized hints of Dudley in his reflection. Mouth tasting of mint, Vernon downed a headache pill and dressed herself in lightweight day clothes. He padded into the hallway, the soft carpet tickling against bare feet. Eventually, he came to a stop at a door, six colored letters proudly declaring it to be _DUDLEY's_ bedroom.

Even after everything with Petunia, he kept the room maintained like a morbid museum.

When his son died, the blow had been violent, and sudden. Vernon hadn't wanted to believe that his son could be so careless, but then he remembered himself at Dudder's age. Reckless, foolish, angry at the world, wanting to prove himself to the other boys. Dudley was a victim of youth, and his youth was stolen from him. Watching Petunia sink into a depression had been just as horrid. Vernon had never been good at communicating or counseling - instead of _talking_ with his wife, he buried himself into his work and spent most nights drinking.

At some point, he no longer noticed when Petunia slipped out of bed to hide in Dudley's room, her sobs resonating through the house. His nephew began cooking every meal and Vernon ate it all, stuffing his mouth so he wouldn't have to speak to his dead-eyed wife. And when his razors suddenly went missing . . . _Vernon did nothing._

Thankfully, Harry was the one to find the body.

Vernon did not cry at her funeral. Mister Mason had attended, suitably solemn and dressed in all black; in consolation for Vernon's loss, Mason ever-so kindly donated several thousand to Grunnings, and Vernon rediscovered his passion for society and business. While he still nursed the bottle most nights, he was in better condition than ever.

Descending the stairs, Vernon tersely wandered into the kitchen, once more wishing his nephew was there to make a hot, hearty breakfast. However, with the hangover, he probably wouldn't have been able to keep it down. Setting the stove and filling a saucepan with water, he boiled his coffee until the heady scent reached his nostrils. Finally ladling it into a cup, he silently sat at the a small wooden table sitting against the wall. The varnish was faded and scratched, desperately needing a good polish.

As he readied his cup to take a sip, Vernon startled as as a sharp rap came at the door.

Due to his stout and short figure, Vernon couldn't see much through the peephole except for the glint of a silver badge. The muscles of his back suddenly tensed with panic. He debated ignoring the constable's arrival but, as the officer's hand raised to rap at the door again, Vernon decided he had done nothing wrong - not _recently,_ anyway. In one swift movement, Vernon unlocked the door and held it open only a crack, the chain catching. He could see, now, the fluff of a white beard and two bright blue eyes, blinking at him in surprise.

"Officer," he murmured, voice rasping. "Is there something I can do for you?"

There was a long pause, before the old man smiled benignly. "Mister Vernon Dursley? My name is Albus Dumbledore. I worked with your wife's late brother-in-law,"

"Late wife, too," Vernon muttered darkly, not liking the sound of this. "What do you want?"

"I hope you don't mind, but I'd like to come in," Vernon particularly _did_ mind. As he was about to voice this, Albus leaned forward against his cane. "The neighbors are muttering quiet fiercely, you know, it would be best if we took this inside." This got Vernon moving, grumbling beneath his breath and ushering Dumbledore in with a surreptitious look around the street.

The constable entered with a single large step, his boots thumping against the floor. A thin grey eyebrow arched as he inspected the household. He was dressed fastidiously in a dark blue uniform, his hair wild and white, beard braided with beads. Dumbledore was intimidatingly tall, though he seemed to be lacking when it came to bulk. His nose was crooked and his hand was hideously deformed - as though both been broken and never properly reset. Though he held himself with a whimsical sort of confidence, his shoulders were stooped with age and stress. "Lovely home," the man said with a false smile.

"Just get on with it," Vernon tugged his collar anxiously, feeling an onslaught of nausea.

"Ah, I see small talk will not be effective with you," Albus shook his head in bemusement. "I shall get to the point. Tell me, Vernon - may I call you Vernon? - what do you know of Sirius Black?"

* * *

 ** _To be continued_**

 ** _In the next installment,_ The Phoenix or the Flame**


	7. The Found

**_Which came first,_**

 ** _the phoenix_**

 ** _or the flame?_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **The Found**

Sitting in the backseat of Albus Dumbledore's car, Harry clenched his fists, refusing to look at the old man. The man appeared genial and frail, too old to be a threat, but his unabashed stare gave Harry the creeps.

The last day had been a blur.

After a three hour plane ride, he'd been dropped off at his uncle's house, infused with the joy and sorrow that came with Tom's farewell in Bulgaria. _'I enjoyed spending these last few nights with you. But when you are eighteen, I would like to bed you properly.'_ That was the plan - Harry would wait out the next month at Vernon's, while Tom would slip back into the facade of a conniving politician. Scrimgeour would be taken care of, and when Harry came of age, Tom would come for him. Albus Dumbledore's abrupt appearance was unexpected and completely unwelcome . . . along with the release of Harry's godfather, Sirius Black.

The paper held tight in his fist crinkled. Harry had read Sirius' letter over and over, trying to find any hint of lingering insanity that would justify Sirius' seventeen-year incarceration. The letterhead was marked with the letter 'M' for Saint Mungo's, the hospital. The handwriting was shaky and blotched.

 _As soon as I was released I knew I had to contact you. Well, that sounds a bit creepy, but regardless, my name is Sirius Black. If you've read any of the newspapers lately or if your sister's family explained anything, I'm sure you already know a bit of who I am._

 _I have recently been released from Azkaban Prison - a horrid place, I'll tell you - for reasons far too complicated for me to describe on paper._ _To make it simple, I made a mistake._

 _After your mum and dad died, I was inconsolable. Your dad and I worked in the Ministry, with Officer Dumbledore, and he'd recently captured some bad people. His interrogation process was unorthodox, he admitted it, and he ended up hurting a woman very badly. She was broken out of jail by a gang, of sorts, and sought retribution. They killed James' partner first, before sending their leader to track down James and Lily._ _I had suspicions that one of our childhood friends, Peter, had given your parent's address to them._

 _I'm still not sure whether or not he's innocent, but when I heard that James was dead - I snapped. I nearly killed Peter in front of twelve witnesses, and was rightfully jailed. It was supposed to be a life sentence, but Dumbledore finally finagled a way to get me out._

 _Since my release, I've been through a whirlwind of isolated cells and hospital beds struggling to learn what had happened in the last ten years. When I heard that you were placed with Lily's beast of a sister, I knew I had greatly disappointed you in my duties as your godfather._

 _When I was in school, I was a great friend of your parents. James Potter was one of my best friends; my partner-in-crime, a fellow trouble maker. Remus Lupin was another friend of ours that I hope you'll meet soon. Your mother, Lily Evans, was one of the smartest girls in our class. I was with your parents all through their whirlwind of a relationship, and in Autumn of 1978, I was made to be your father's Best Man in their wedding. As a testament to your parent's trust in me, on the day of your birth I was asked to be your Godfather. I agreed, and have never regretted it._

 _I held you as a newborn, I changed your explosive diapers_ _and I was there on your first birthday to see you smother your chubby baby face with chocolate cake. You were like a son to me, and I deeply regret not being there for you when Lily and James died._

 _After their deaths, I followed Peter rather than stay with my best friend's orphaned son, a horrific realization I came to learn the moment I stepped into that damned prison. You needed me, and I left you for my revenge. I was angry, I was grieving, I was foolish. I don't know if I can ever redeem myself to you, but I can sure as hell try._

 _I will soon be declared sane enough to be 'released into society', and when I am, I want to offer you a sanctuary, a home far away from Petunia Dursley and her pig of a husband. (Yes, I have met the unfortunate Dursley's, and I'm sure, as sure I am of my name, that they have not grown any more pleasant through the years)._

 _I don't care if you're seventeen or seventy, I cannot wait to meet you and see the boy you've grown to become, to tell you stories of your parents, and be the family you never had._

 _Love, your godfather,_

 _Sirius Black_

The tone was hopeful, regretful, reminiscent - everything you would expect from a repentant criminal. The thing was, Harry has _met_ criminals. And everything about this was suspicious. "Sir," Harry said abruptly. "I . . . I don't feel very well." He wasn't lying. He felt sick to his stomach, sweat pooling on his skin.

A bushy brow lifted. "I'm sure they're just nerves," the man said. "There is no need to be fearful of your godfather. He is a changed man."

"Can't be _that_ changed," Harry pointed out. "He's only been out of jail for a day. How do you know that he's not a psychopath or something? "

Albus gave a strained smile. "I suppose that is a valid concern," the man leaned backed into the seat, blue suit crinkling. "But rest assured, the psychological evaluations at Saint Mungo's are very thorough."

"Right." Harry was dubious. When they arrived at the hospital, the boy remained a few steps behind Dumbledore, allowing the older man to lead the way. Harry stared at the back of his head, noticing the silver beads braided into the frayed white hair.

 **"** Madam?" Dumbledore called out, nudging Harry forward.

Peering over silver eyeglasses, the receptionist sighed. "Are you here for visiting hours?" she shifted through a pile of manilla files.

"Um, yes," Harry hedged. "I'm here to see Sirius Black."

"We have an appointment," Dumbledore added.

Her nose crinkled. "Yes, I know you, Officer Dumbledore," she snapped. "Finally checking in, hm? MacDougal told me about you."

The older man smiled charmingly. "All good things, I hope."

She harrumphed, pulling out a clipboard. "Name? Relationship to the patient?"

"Harry Potter. I'm, er, Sirius' godson."

"Room four hundred fifty-seven." She flicked a dismissive hand.

Harry followed Dumbledore, struggling to keep up with the quick-paced old man. They climbed a flight of steps, avoiding a woman with a mask over her mouth. Harry heard the distinct sound of vomiting and shuddered. When they reached a nondescript door, Dumbledore urged him to knock. "I will wait out here."

Tentatively, Harry rapped against the door.

"Come in! Harry," Sirius croaked, looking up from his place at the windowsill.

The man had spent the last hour pacing the room, muttering furiously under his breath. He had grown restless, waiting to see the boy he thought of as a son. Sirius wasn't even sure the boy had gotten his letter, despite MacDougal's assurances that he'd passed it along to Dumbledore. He took in the sight of James' son, with his dark hair and bright jade eyes. He looked so much like James. "Harry, I'm - I'm so glad to see you," he smiled, eyes prickling.

Sirius was dressed in a pale white garb, the pants comfortable and the shirt hanging on his thin, skeletal frame. The man had long jet-black hair, pulled back into a ponytail that accentuated his sharp cheekbones. He had light eyes than shone with something Harry couldn't identify. Certainly no one had ever looked at him in such a way.

"Pleasure." He pulled a parchment out of his jeans pocket. Harry thrusted forward the paper, which was heavily creased and clearly well-read. "I read your letter. I . . I like what you said about my parents. I don't know much about them."

Sirius gave a lopsided smile. "Yeah? I figured lovely Tuney wouldn't have told you much."

Black curls bounced as Harry brushed his hair back. "She, erm. She died. About three years ago. But yeah."

"Oh - my condolences," his brow furrowed. "Is your Uncle . . . ?"

"Let's not talk about them," Harry said shortly. Sirius' face slacked and the boy made an effort to relax. He sat on the unmade bed, brushing non-existent dust from the covers. "How are you?"

"Amazing, compared to, you know, before." Sirius shrugged. "How about you? What grade are you in? Oh - wait. You're nearly eighteen. Have you graduated? Of course you did, Lily's son wouldn't be a drop-out," he barked a laugh. "Are you planning on uni?"

The boy leaned back, bombarded by the questions. "I - um, no. I hadn't really planned on it." He truly hadn't. His life, until now, had largely consisted of surviving until the next day, the next week, the next month until he was finally able to leave Privet Drive. Vernon hadn't allowed him a job, and even if the man had, Harry would never have earned enough for tuition. "I . . . I actually wanted to be a police officer." Or, he _had._ Circumstances had obviously changed.

Sirius lit up. "Like father like son! You know, Dumbledore is a dear friend of mine, and he works with the Minister himself."

"I'm aware," Harry said quietly. The stories that slipped from Sirius' lips described a world where everything was black and white; good and bad. Sirius and James were a daring team in these stories, battling criminals, wooing damsels in distress and saving the day. How . . . perfect.

A week ago, he might've hung on Sirius' every word. But Sirius was living proof that real life wasn't so ideal.

And Harry was proof that not all stories had a happy ending.

* * *

" - he's wonderful, Remus," Sirius gushed, rocking back and forth in the bed. "He seemed quite shy at first, but he's sharp as a whip and has a smile just like James. Harry looks just like him, I swear, it was like I'd stepped back in time. Except his eyes. He's got - "

"Lily's eyes, I know," Remus said indulgently, picking at his plain meal of yorkshire pudding. Remus, while he acted much the same, hadn't aged well. He appeared very tired, with peppered hair and a puckered scar running from his left eyebrow and down to his jaw. A knife fight, he claimed, in the back of a pub not long after James and Lily died. His eyes were just as kind, however, just as gentle. "You've told me multiple times. I can't wait to meet him."

Sirius scowled. "You've already met him, Remus," he said petulantly.

"He was only a baby," Remus reminded gently. "I doubt he remembers ol' Moony."

"Well, perhaps you can come over for dinner sometime."

" _You'd_ cook _dinner?"_ Remus asked in disbelief.

Sirius defended his statement. "Take-out quantifies as dinner. Swear you'll send us covered dishes until I learn how to not burn the house down? I'm highly anticipating your beef stroganoff."

Remus laughed. "I haven't made that in years. It'll probably be a bit crispy around the edges."

"Not a problem," the other man shrugged. "It'll still be leagues better than prison food."

"Patty is the real chef in our house," Remus admitted. "She can make a gourmet meal out of anything. And I mean _anything_. Her cravings have gotten a bit out of hand," he shook his head fondly.

Sirius pressed his lips together. "Er, right. How is . . . Patty?"

"Moody," Remus smiled, eyes bright with fondness. "But glowing. She really wants to meet you, but, well, she's not comfortable with hospitals. "

"Where's she going to give birth, then?"

The man grimaced. "I've been taking classes on home-births. We've . . . we've had to watch many videos."

Sirius snorted. "Poor Moony! God, I can't believe you're going to be a dad. I can't believe _I'm_ going to be a dad."

Remus bit his lip. "Well - Harry's awfully old. You ought not smother him."

 _"Smother?"_ the man snarled, tone darkening. "Lily's sister and uncle never even _hugged_ the boy. I do wish Dumbledore hadn't put him with those horrid creatures."

Remus swallowed tightly. "After your incarceration, I petitioned for Harry's guardianship," he said in a low tone. "But the Ministry was against it, especially that awful Umbridge woman. She thought me . . . unfit."

"Really? Because of the . . . " Remus nodded. Sirius growled. "But you're recovered! _I_ nearly murdered a man, spent more than a decade in jail and they're still letting me take him." The Ministry was highly unfair in it's proceedings - this was one of the reasons Sirius became a lawman, to help _change_ that. Still, even years later, Umbridge and toads like her were making rash, thoughtless decisions that ruined people's lives.

When Remus was fifteen, he had been in a dark place.

His father had been killed by a man named Fenrir Greyback, a member of Thomas Riddle's gang of criminals. His mother was a wreck, frantic and anxious, which certainly didn't help Remus' mental state. His doctor placed him on medication for depression.

It helped, at first, but over the course of a single summer, two pills a day stretched to dozens. Remus lost weight fast, his hair began falling out in clumps and he slept constantly. The days blurred together and when school came around, Remus was no longer able to maintain his stellar grades. The scholarship he'd been placed on was slipping between his fingers, but boarding school was the only thing he lived for anymore. When he ran out of pills, he had no idea what to do - the addiction was less of a draw, and more of an all-encompassing burn. He knew that Sirius smoked weed and hoped that the boy would provide _something_ for Remus fill this raw need.

His hopes were shattered when Sirius shoved Remus in front of the school therapist, Madam Pomfrey. The withdrawal was painful, both physically and emotionally, and Remus had to face several truths that he had forced aside.

He hadn't touched a bottle in more than a decade, but Remus would forever be a 'recovering addict', because you never fully recovered from something like that.

The hazel-eyed man sighed. "I've long ago accepted the fact my teenage choices would forever affect my life. I could barely find a job because the overdose was on my permanent records - and Dumbledore couldn't help. Perhaps _wouldn't._ I don't know. I wanted to visit Harry, at least, but Dumbledore wouldn't tell me where he was placed. He told me Harry was safe wherever he was. . . and I . . . threw a tantrum."

"Really? Goody-goody Lupin threw a tantrum?" Sirius raised a brow.

Remus shrugged. "Everyone was understandably out of sorts at that time," he said quietly. "But I never forgot about Harry, believe me. I'd just lost three of my friends and Peter was in the hospital, and I couldn't bring myself to fight for the boy. I regret that all the time. Let me be clear, I don't regret meeting Patty. If it weren't for my self-imposed hermitage, I'd have never met her, I'd have never married her. But now that you're back and Harry's away from Lily's vile relatives, we can be a family again," he smiled.

Dark hairs tangled as Sirius ran a hand through his hair. "I like the idea of being family," he said softly. "It seems we've both failed Harry."

Remus' brows furrowed. "I've had many years to think on all the 'what-ifs'. But I soon realized that is better to think 'what now?' and make things better. Speaking of 'what now', I really ought to be getting back," he checked his wristwatch. Remus tossed the remains of his supper and stood. "I don't like Patty being home alone when she's this far along. Knowing her, she'll decide to clean the basement or something and end up tripping down the steps."

"Wouldn't want that," Sirius chuckled, though the sound was strained. His blue eyes were a bit wistful. "I wish you could stay longer. It gets so boring in here with only stuffy McDougal to keep me company."

"You get others visitors, don't you?" Remus asked.

"Sometimes Dumbledore," Sirius snorted. "When he deigns to visit us mere mortals. Give Patty my condolences, Moony. And kiss her belly, too."

Remus saluted his old friend. "Ay, ay, Captain Black. Say 'hello' to Harry for me. Just, uh, don't kiss his stomach. That'd be pushing a few boundaries."

Sirius' laughter was contagious.

* * *

 ** _Mid July_**

Even magpies, with their supposed penchant for mischief and skilled theft, paled in comparison to Monica's keen eye for shiny things. Her hands were smudged with polish and a faint shimmering dust, coating her nails with a metallic sheen. With the stillness of a wildcat, lying in wait for it's prey, Monica attempted to concentrate on the watch in front of her. Using slow, deliberate movements, she took up a pair of tweezers and plucked up a round green gem. Only years of practice allowed Monica to resist a flinch as the dark workroom was swept up in daylight.

The hinges of the door creaked, followed by the thumping of her husband's boots on the doormat. "Wipe your shoes, please, gentlemen," he said to his guests, propping the entrance open with a wooden doorstop.

Usually, Wendell and Monica Wilkins worked in a dim light and silence to reduce the chance for distractions, but this deviation from usual was very calculated on Wendell's part. The artifacts and precious metals scattered across the work tables glimmered beatifically in the golden glow. Blinking their beady eyes, the two men eyed the gems with clear avarice. They were both ministry men, dressed in brown suits and their hair perfectly gelled.

"Business is well then, Mister Wilkins?" the elder gentleman said, fingers trailing across the table top. He wore a pair of cheater glasses, framing a narrow face. "You seem to be working on quite a few projects."

Wendell winked at his wife and Monica was placated enough to continue her work. "More than a few, Mister Rookwood. My wife and I are up to nearly twenty commissions from this last month. Of course, we had to turn down a good number because the materials were unattainable, but - "

"Yes, yes," Rookwood flapped a hand. "Riddle has heard your complaints time and time again. But you've made due on the - rather _generous_ \- supply we give you, no?"

"We've made due, yes," Wendell said noncommittally. He wore a plain uniform, his curly black hair shaved to his head. He'd grown a thick beard in the last few years, deviating greatly from the clean-cut, perfectionist of a man he was over six years ago.

"The artifacts _are_ quite beautiful," the other man spoke.

Monica had set the gem into a hollowed out notch where the watch's dial would be. It was only with the steady hand of her previous profession that she was able to remain steady with the heavy breathing of Barty Crouch Junior on her neck. The man was vile and crude, seducing every widowed harridan that batted her false eyelashes.

But he paid well for their _artifacts._

"We only sell the best," Wendell said stiffly, glaring at Barty. "What is it that Riddle needs this time?"

Rookwood let out a long breath. "Something that would . . . cause a great amount of destruction."

"Naturally," Wendell sneered. "There is no need to be vague here, Rookwood. There are no cameras. There are no bugs. We will keep your secrets. After all, we _specialize_ in subtlety."

"Not enough," Barty spat, turning away from Monica. "Our insiders tell us that Dumbledore has reopened your missing persons case. He used someone good with puzzles, an analyst. You may know him as the oldest son of your old friend _Weasley_. Young William pieced together some shredded documents and found mentions of Australia."

Monica set down the tweezers, frowning at his words.

"We left no evidence behind," Wendell swore vehemently.

"Just your daughter, pretty thing," Barty grinned, revealing yellow teeth. His tongue peeked out, the pink tip swiping at his lip. "She's all grown up now."

Rookward rolled his eyes at Barty's leer. "Your daughter pressured Dumbledore into enlisting William. Perhaps it was all conjecture, or a lucky guess - but he's on to you, now. Riddle will consider keeping up this _charade_ of yours, so long as you continue to provide us the equipment we need."

Wendell clenched his large fists, letting out a long breath. These two men never failed to rile him up. _"What do you need?"_ he repeated through clenched teeth.

Barty sidled up next to him, pulling a number of documents from his trench-coat. The weaselly man was about as tall as Monica - that is to say, rather compact - but the uncontrolled tremble to his body and the mad look in his brown eyes warned Wendell against picking a fight.

"A bomb," Barty murmured in distant fascination as he stared at the blueprints. "Something small, undetectable, and above all - _controlled._ Isolated. Riddle does not want to cause _too_ much harm. Only enough to serve as a distraction while we . . . _takeout_ the current Minister."

"Scrimgeour?" Wendell's lips turned down as he analyzed the plans. He passed them over to Monica, who wiped her hands with a clean rag. "Yes, this is doable."

"We will need some materials - " Monica started.

"Yes, yes," Rookwood slapped a cheque onto the table. "Stop your complaining, woman. This stipend will hopefully serve useful."

"It won't _bounce,_ will it?" Wendell asked skeptically, lifting the cheque beneath a ceiling lamp for the correct watermarks.

Barty gave a slow smile, tongue flicking, but did not respond. He checked his pocket-watch, the device poorly made and scratched. The name _Bartemius_ _Crouch_ was inscribed into the back. "It is time for us to depart," he straightened his tie.

"Where are you going?"

"Barty is joining me at an embassy meeting with the Australian Minister."

"As Junior Assistant to our _dear_ Minister, I'm serving as his representative," the man grinned. "Though, this meeting will prove to be terribly dull business."

As they were about to leave the door, Monica burst forward. "Rookwood, tell me about my daughter, please. I _need_ to know."

Rookward sneered, removing her fingers from his elbow. "Ungrateful _bitch._ You were given these aliases to _forget._ Riddle gave you the chance to make a new life - "

"Riddle _forced_ us to leave her behind!" She shouted, voice shrill. "We didn't have a choice! But I can't - I can't just forget my own daughter!"

"Your _daughter_ is a weak bitch, hiding under Dumbledore's control," Barty spat. "When Scrimgeour dies, the Order will crumble with it, leaving your girl vulnerable and for the taking. And you have only yourself to blame for it. But do as we ask, and Riddle may consider assimilating her into his new world order. Rather than _terminating_ her like the rest of Dumbledore's mindless sycophants."

Monica let out a sob as the two men swept away. She crumpled to the floor, Wendell wrapping a strong arm around her, pressing his nose to her light brown hair. She was a small woman, with long fingers and a sharper mind than most. She was usually the more compassionate of the two, except on the rare occasion that Wendell lost his temper. Every time those two men visited on behalf of Riddle, Wendell was filled with grief and regret, and most of all _anger -_ at himself.

More than six years ago, Wendell and Monica Wilkins went by different names - their true names. Helen and Jack Granger. They had a daughter, only eleven at the time, and led a quaint life. They always erred always on the right side of the law; that is, until Jack killed a patient.

Malpractice is a fear of any doctor. A single lawsuit can ruin their career, ruin their lives.

The Grangers ran their own dentistry in London, and Jack didn't realize until halfway through a surgery that his three-year-old patient was having an allergic reaction. It was just a simple surgery to remove some apple-juice stained cavities, but the child's throat was closing up quick, his skin gaining a red rash that Jack recognized as symptoms of anaphylaxis. There was little time for them to react - Helen, serving as his assistant, screaming as though it was her own child dying. The boy, with his blonde hair and sleepy grey eyes, died on the surgery table.

Panic flooding them, they slipped out of the office and packed their things, trying in vain to order tickets to Australia that they had no money for.

Eyes bloodshot, Helen had turned to him with a torn, desolate expression. _'You know Serena Zabini, Hermione's friend's mum? She can help us.'_ Jack never met Zabini in person, but he had met Riddle. The man was imposing and seemingly all-knowing, providing them money and fake names quicker than Jack thought possible. Riddle even sent over a few men to destroy their house, to cover their tracks.

Riddle seemed like a lifesaver at the time, but his stipulations were high. Too high.

 _'You've already killed one child. Why should you be trusted with your own?'_

The image of red-tinted skin and chubby, slack features haunted Jack's mind.

Wendell regretted many things, but he secretly couldn't help but agree with Riddle. He was no different than Rookwood and Crouch, a lawless criminal. His wife deserved much better, and for her, he would build this bomb - just like he had all the other weapons of war Riddle had commissioned over the years.

Just like six years ago, to save his daughter - and to save his own hide - he would kill again.

* * *

 ** _To be continued_**

 ** _In_ The Wicked**


	8. The Wicked

**_Which came first,_**

 ** _the phoenix_**

 ** _or the flame?_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **The Wicked**

Sirius Black swore as he stepped into the hall, tripping over a table leg.

"You alright?" Harry asked the man. Sirius grimaced, placing a balancing hand atop Harry's curls.

This wasn't the first time the clumsy man had tripped over some sort of wayward furniture. As daylight streamed through the front hall, it was made even clearer how neglected Grimmauld Place was. The walls were crawling with cobwebs and dust, the furniture in near-disrepair and the ambiance dreary. Sirius' childhood home had always been a tragic space, but it had gotten worse over the years.

"Yeah," Sirius breathed, massaging his foot. "But I suppose we should begin fixing this place up. That alright, kiddo?"

Trying not to be annoyed at the pet name, Harry put the groceries away. They'd moved in with only the bare necessities; by now, the ice box was empty and there was no food to speak of. Harry gladly ventured out for the nearby market, stockpiling on vegetable, fruits and snacks. "Can I explore some, too?"

Sirius smirked. "Of course you can. Just don't touch anything that seems . . . vase-like _._ My mum hoarded the ashes of famous people. I know, gross, right?"

Harry made it a mission to restore the mansion to it's former glory.

Needing a suitable place to sleep, he redid his bedroom first. Technically, it was Sirius' brother's bedroom, but Regulus had been killed in a car wreck in the early 80s. Regulus' school things were placed into the attic, a dusty repository for antique furniture and creepy portraits. Harry didn't have much of his own to decorate, but amused himself with sticking drawings and torn book pages onto the walls. The massive queen's size bed took up most of the room, and the loose floorboard underneath? Highly useful for illicit magazines.

With the debatable chaperoning of Sirius, Grimmauld Place was soon cob-web and mold free. Soon, the house was stocked with food and - thank God - a working air conditioner. Walls were painted to Sirius' approval, the carpets clean of grime, the furniture reupholstered and the expansive mothball scent all but a distant memory.

The basement was mostly free of vermin - Sirius quickly took care of that.

Lying in his bedroom after a long day of work, Harry jerked at the sounds of a broom smacking at the small colony of rats hiding in the walls. Harry peered his head through the door, swallowing tightly as Sirius swore viciously. "You damned rat! I'm going to kill you!" Sirius began laughing. "Like that, do you? You disgusting _beasts."_

Sometimes, Harry had to wonder about Sirius.

Nighttime was the worst, when his godfather would wake up screaming and clawing at his body. The man never liked to talk about prison and Harry was smart enough not to ask. If Sirius wasn't insane before Azkaban Prison, he certainly was close to it now.

Stuck in Grimmauld Place, Harry was going a bit stir-crazy, himself. It had been nearly three weeks since Bulgaria. Harry hadn't heard hide nor hair of Tom in that time. He tried not to be upset by it. A head ache had been slowly forming behind his temples, the words on his book squirming into slow indecipherability. Just as he was about to give up, Harry was distracted from his reading by Sirius' abrupt return from the mailbox.

"Harry! Harry!" the man slammed open his bedroom door, bouncing on his heels.

"What the hell, Sirius?" Harry sat up. "I could have been wanking."

"Good thing you weren't," With his short hair tousled and wavy, Sirius looked younger than his thirty-something years. The man focused his attention on the half-eaten sandwich sitting on the bedside table. "You finished with that? Thanks."

"I was _not_ done with that, in fact," Harry said, eyes narrowing at the 'elder'.

"I'm hungry."

Harry grumbled. "So was I."

"I'll make you another later. Anyways, the Weasleys have invited us for dinner the week after next." Green eyes blinked uncomprehendingly. "You know, the Weasleys? That big, happy family I was telling you about?" he flapped a dismissive hand. "The party's on the 30th, in celebration of your's and Neville Longbottom's joint birthdays."

Harry arched a brow. "My birthday's the 31st."

"Too bad. Dumbledore's invited us to some Ministry event on the 31st."

Harry's stomach clenched. "A - a Ministry event? Do we have to?"

Sirius gnawed on his sandwich, eyes darkening. "He thinks it would be good for me to 're-immerse myself' into politics, once my house arrest is over," he sighed. "The only good thing about prison was the complete lack of schmoozing."

The boy bit his lip. "Okay, but what about the Weasleys? I don't even know them. Why would they - "

"Harry, I've got about seventeen years of gifts to make up for, and Molly is a force to be reckoned with when it comes to party-planning. You'll love it." Harry shifted, remembering the last 'party' he went to.

But Sirius looked so hopeful to see his old friends that it was impossible to say no.

* * *

It had been late on the twenty-first of July that Patty's water broke. Several long, painful hours later, Sirius received phone call telling them the news. "It's a healthy baby girl. We've named her Lily - Lily Renata Lupin."

The near eighteen-year-old had never met a baby before and was smitten with the pink, squalling bundle squirming in her mother's arms. In their bedroom at home, Patrica was glowing, wearing nothing but a thin blue robe around her plump figure. Her long, lank brown hair was being tugged by a small fist. Patricia was of Spaniard descent, with tan skin and darker features.

Lily Renata had a shock of bronze hair and wrinkled dark blue eyes. "They'll lighten as she ages," Patricia told Harry quietly, stroking a finger down Lily's soft cheek. "I suspect she'll have my eyes." Harry never took his gaze off the child. Patricia smiled fondly. "Would you like to hold her? She's named for your mother, you know."

The boy swallowed tightly, Lily's head to be settled into the crook of his elbow, keeping her neck elevated. "Just like that," Remus said, voice gentle. "You're a natural, Harry. Much like your mother."

Lily blinked lazily at him, squinted eyes finding interest in the gleam of his glasses. "She's beautiful," Harry said softly.

"Yeah? Harry, I've been meaning to ask you - how would you like to be godfather?"

The boy had to sit down quite suddenly.

Sirius lingered behind awkwardly, jealousy rearing it's ugly head. He tightly clenched the pink teddy-bear that he'd bought for Lily. His house arrest was finally over, and seeing Remus' home was a bit surreal for Sirius.

While the man was immensely happy for his friend, there was a pang in his chest at the reminder that Sirius had missed so much of Remus' adult life. He wasn't there to tease Remus over losing his virginity, he wasn't there to hide behind a tree when Remus proposed to Patty, he completely missed the wedding - and now, he was overlooked as godfather. The man grimaced slightly, conceding to the point that he rather failed at that job before. But it still hurt.

Like most negative feelings, Sirius forced it to the back of his mind, plastering on his usual, chipper grin. "Congratulations, Harry. Let the cycle continue, eh?" The bitter words left his mouth without thinking.

Harry's eyes met his, confused and hurt. But the boy said nothing, merely pulling Lily closer to his chest.

* * *

It was nighttime in London.

Mister Mason was dressed to the nines in a tight grey suit, a champagne glass dangling between his fingers. The night had been lazy and calm; Mason had been invited to a rather sordid bar with a few select members of his friend group. Vernon Dursley arrived alone, his lovely nephew nowhere to be found.

Although he mourned the loss of young Harry, Mason was not one to cross with Thomas Riddle. Mason had done as Tom asked, spreading the word of Thicknesse's rise in politics. Pius, the old chap, was popular among the bourgeois, who were largely conservative in their ways. If Pius managed to gain the popular vote, things would certainly be changing in the Ministry, with Tom pulling the strings from his high horse.

Mason licked his lips, eyes lingering on Missus Zabini - Serena, if he was not mistaken.

It seemed Zabini was recently widowed, looking for potential suitors among the older aristocrats, perhaps. She had a son, too, but Mason always liked young boys. Serena was slim and dark, with cornrow braids in her ebony hair. Her long pink dress had a slit down the side, showing off long legs. She wore it with a confidence that went straight to Mason's groin. He hadn't had sex in a while.

Mister and Missus Mason no longer shared a bed, barely in the company of each other. They were long past the precipice of divorce, but remained together against all odds. Point was, Mason wasn't getting any.

The man stood slowly, approaching Serena with a slow, leering smile. Mason wasn't an ugly man, he knew. He'd been a rugby player in his prime, the muscles existing behind a slight layer of pudge. He was cleanly shaven today, his greying hair recently dyed.

Serena stiffened as Mason approached from behind, a hand caressing her sharp hip. "Hello, lovely," he purred into her ear. "Looking for some company?"

Serena tilted her head up to peer at Mason, her sharp cheeks softened by the dim light. Her lips were stained red from the strawberry tarts and Mason was sure her mouth would taste just as sweet. Kohl lined her dark eyes, the irises appearing almost black. "Get me out of here," she whispered.

She writhed beautifully as he pressed a knee between her legs, feeling a slight lump on her thigh. "Wearing a garter, honey?" Mason whispered. "Naughty girl."

Serena smirked, leaning forward to breathe against his neck. "You'll have to find out."

They cut through the crowd, evading the scantily-dressed hoards of men and women grinding on the marble floor. Vivid lights strobed across the chamber, illuminating the diverse skins and the glittering outfits. Very little could be heard through the blaring music, masking a cacophony of tittering laughter, sensual moans and sultry whispers.

Mason glided along with the girl, catching the knowing gazes of his compatriots. Vernon was inebriated beyond reconcile, his eyes catching on Serena's supple arse. He licked his lips and finished his drink, waving a farewell to Mason. As they reached the back exit, the man practically thrummed with excitement at bedding the infamous 'black widow'. The woman was known for her prowess in bed.

He pressed Serena against the stone wall, gnawing at her exposed collarbone. His hand slipped up her skirt, gliding over smooth skin before the pad of his thumb was pierced by something cold, and sharp. Mason dropped his hand, pulling away with a pained hiss. "What the _fuck_ was that?"

Ample blood was spilling from the slice, staining his shoes. Serena smiled in the dark, teeth gleaming dangerously. She slipped aside her dress, revealing a knife strapped to her inner thigh. "A chastity device, Mister Mason," Serena said sweetly, drawing the blade. "One that I intend to use." In a swift movement, the point was pressed against his jugular.

Mason tried not to swallow, sweat beading on his forehead. "You're - you're just a girl," he defended weakly.

Serena's gaze sharpened, and the blade tore into his fat gullet. "One _'girl'_ of many that you've assaulted, I'm sure," she murmured. "Boys, too, if what Riddle said was any indication."

Mason's eyes went wide. "R - Riddle? But I did as he asked! I campaigned for Thicknesse, I'm certain he'll have the full support of the mid-to-upper classes!"

"Fantastic," Serena said sarcastically. "I'm sure Riddle will be pleased to hear it. But why would Riddle keep someone as vile as you around once you've served his purpose?"

"He's kept worse," Mason gasped out, glaring vehemently at her.

Serena tipped his head. "True," she agreed easily. _"But they have worth to him._ You were never anything more than a means to an end - a loose canon and, frankly, _loose."_

The man spluttered incoherently. Serena smiled, rearing back to stab him directly in the crotch. She pulled out quickly, bringing a hand up to muffle his screams. As Mason fell to the floor, whimpering pitifully, she straddled his soft stomach, knife once more to his made a helpless groan. Serena revelled at the sounds. "Honey traps are my least favorite assignments, you know?" She sighed sadly. "I despise being touched by slimy, handsy creatures like you. Fortunately, my next target is Vernon Dursley. I believe you know him? Well, he's really quite drunk right now," she whispered conspiratorially. "And it's very easy to pass a murder off as a drunken car wreck."

"Vernon's . . . done . . . nothing," Mason rasped.

"That's exactly the problem," Serena hissed. "He let you perve on underage children and blackmailed you for his own profit. Riddle has no need for spineless _pimps_ like him _._ Now, as much as I'd love to _draw this out,_ I really must be going. It was . . . " Serena pressed a light kiss to his cheek. "Quite a pleasure." Mason's screams were drowned out in blood as she stabbed him in the throat.

* * *

It arrived in the mail, attached to a single, blood red rose, its thorns sharp enough to sting. The tag was an excerpt from the _Daily Prophet._

 ** _Grunnings Builder and Head Director Found Dead_**

 _Discovered in the back of a pub the night after a company celebration was Melvin Mason, supplier and shareholder of_ Grunnings Drills _. Marked with the calling card of the infamous Black Widow killer, Mason was brutally stabbed twice with a killing blow to his throat. Mason is survived by his wife of thirty-five years, Susan Mason._

 _That same night, in an unrelated event, Vernon Dursley of_ Grunnings Drills _was apart of a deadly collision on an abandoned road in Surrey. Suspected drunk, Dursley was the only victim. Dursley is survived by his nephew, Harry Evans-Potter (18)._

 _Grunnings Drills refuses comment._

Written in the margins in sharp black ink was a simple note. _'I will always find you,_ Harry Potter.' Breathing heavily, Harry crinkled the note in his hands. He hadn't been intentionally keeping his identity from Tom - though he vaguely recalled introducing himself as simply 'Harry Evans'.

Tom was not a bloody idiot. It was Harry that should have connected the dots earlier. His father was a policeman, who interrogated a woman until she miscarried. Tom broke Bellatrix out of jail and helped to enact her revenge, and James and Lily Potter are murdered in cold blood by the leader of a mysterious 'gang'. Yet, somehow, Harry miraculously survived - all because Tom supposedly _'doesn't take kindly to murdering children'._

The boy laughed hollowly. At least his lover, the murderer of his parents, had _some_ morals.

Snapping Harry's from his epiphany, his goddaughter mewled from her place on the ground. She was on a colorful mat, staring up at a number of plush animals dangling from an arch. Harry was at Remus' house babysitting, while Patricia and Remus were getting some much needed rest elsewhere.

Quelling the sensations of nausea and unrest, Harry lifted Lily and cradled her against his chest. "You're so loved, Lily," he whispered to her. _"So loved."_

He wanted a message from Riddle, and he'd gotten one.

* * *

 ** _To be continued_**

 ** _In_ The Sinner**


	9. The Sinner

**_Which came first,_**

 ** _the phoenix_**

 ** _or the flame?_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **The Sinner**

Leaning back into his desk chair, Percy Weasley scrubbed at his eyes, sighing deeply. His hair was lank and unwashed, the orange color dull and - horrifyingly - already speckled with grey. There were bags beneath his eyes, skin so pale that his freckles seemed more like the chicken pox.

His mother wouldn't leave him alone, bombarding his personal phone with concerned voicemails and pleas for him to return home. Percy had begun bringing his toothbrush and a fresh pair of clothes to work, prone to falling asleep at his desk, ink staining his cheek. A pile of ridiculously large papers was waiting for him, barely a dent made even after a night of frantic, coffee-fueled work. Percy had no personal life to speak of and hadn't slept a full eight hours for a month.

Impeccable grades and a full tuition to uni did not prepare Percy for the stress of being Junior Assistant to Undersecretary Madam Umbridge. The woman was a cruel mistress, with the invasiveness of his mother, the sternness of old Professor McGonagall and the sickeningly sweet, condescending tone of Bill's wife, the French bitch.

Misery loves company, but Percy didn't even have that.

He sent a bitter look at Barty Crouch Junior's empty desk. Barty was, technically, Percy's superior, but the man did half the work for double the pay. Through his father's connections, Barty had weaseled his way into politics; his crude but effective prowess secured him the influential position as Junior Assistant to the Minister, himself. Percy was green with envy.

Something about Crouch always struck Percy as _wrong._ Perhaps it was the tongue-flicking tick or the leering eyes, giving the impression that Barty was laughing at everyone. Laughing at _Percy,_ especially.

The company Barty kept was powerful. Barty was nearly twenty years their junior and somehow managed to gain the respect of the embassy head, Rookwood, and the despicable likes of Malfoy, who ruled the Board of Education with an iron fist.

Percy didn't trust Barty one bit.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

The door to their joint office opened, revealing a smirking Crouch Junior, teeth stained from coffee. Just as Percy was about to say something snide, someone stepped in behind him.

He stood up quickly, straightening his second-hand suit. "Mister Crouch, sir."

As the Head of Recreation and Events, Bartemius Crouch Senior was everything his son was not; poised, eloquent and responsible. Personally, Percy thought the man should be elected for Minister, but as it was, the Head of Events was integral to the upcoming campaign event.

Despite the creeping deadline, Crouch Senior looked collected, not a moustache hair out of place. "Weatherby," the man inclined his head. Percy flushed brightly at both the moniker and the disapproving glance toward his mountain of unfinished paperwork.

Sniggering softly, Barty began sifting through his drawers, finding a copy of the Minister's campaign speech. It was nearly three pages long and edited a dozen times by Barty, the minister, Umbridge, Dumbledore and Percy, himself. He was rather proud, in fact -

"No, no, this won't do at all," Crouch Senior rumbled, stroking his chin. "A bit excessive, no? Cut it down to one page."

"What?" Percy gaped. "Why?"

"A leak has revealed that Thicknesse's address will be short and succinct. This, in comparision, will make Scrimgeour seemed long-winded. The audience will fall asleep!"

"Or . . . perhaps they'll be impressed?" Percy weakly suggested.

Crouch shot him a disgusted look. "Doubtful. Get on it, boys."

"What are we going to _do?"_ Percy groaned the moment their door slammed shut.

Barty's watch began to beep, the screen flashing. "I honestly don't care what _you_ do, Weatherby," he tossed the speech onto Percy's desk. "I've got a meeting with the Minister in five. Have fun killing your darlings."

Percy spluttered, face as red as his hair. "You can't possibly - this isn't - Crouch!" Barty lent him a crude hand gesture in goodbye, sweeping away. The ginger-haired man groaned, feeling close to tears. Worse than negligence and his horrid attitude was the way Barty walked all over him; and the fact Percy _let_ him.

When this damn election was over, he'd be grateful.

* * *

"I see a monarch, Luna," a soft voice whispered, a pale finger aimed at a orange-winged insect.

Lips rounding in a pink 'o', Luna hiked up her skirt and padded across the underbrush, stray leaves crunching beneath her sandalled feet.

Xenophilius Lovegood lingered a bit behind, smiling fondly at Luna's delighted squeals.

His eyes suddenly widened. "Oh, it's the urtica dioica!" His white-blond head of curls disappeared behind a bush of stinging nettles. Luna stopped at his exclamation of pain, watching in concern as Xeno popped up a few seconds later, suckling at his pointer finger. "It stung me," the man said, staring down at the plant in interest. "I wonder what other sort of natural defenses the urtica has. . . "

"We could ask Neville," Luna tilted her head. "He's majoring in botany. We'll see him at the party."

"Respectable profession," Xeno nodded. "Look!"

Luna gasped and lunged toward the butterfly, disappearing behind some trees. "Papa! Come quick!" Luna shouted beyond the bend.

She had stopped in the midst of tall grass, cradling the monarch in her dirt-smudged hands. As Xeno leaned forward to inspect it, the butterfly panicked and took off into the trees.

Pouting slightly, Luna watched it disappear into the horizon, fluttering toward the Burrow. Suddenly exuberant, Luna twirled on her heel and pranced away.

Crickets scattering at his feet, Xeno followed at a more sedate place, colorful harem pants dragging behind.

"It's the Lovegoods!" Came a heady call from the yard.

Two identical gingers swooped in to grab the small blonde and Luna giggled as the twins spun her in the air. "We've got you, little Luna!" Fred proclaimed before setting her down. "Well, not so little anymore. Last time we saw you, I could swear you were shorter."

"Oh dear," George said in concern. "She's fallen to the terrible malady that's sweeping the nation; growing up. First Ron and Hermione, then Ginny, and now you!"

"Not to mention our birthday boys," Fred piped up, sending a glance at the dark-haired Longbottom heir gracelessly tripping out of the house, Ginny at his heels.

Ginny stomped up to them, stained overalls rolled up and her hair kept in a ragged braid. "I can't believe you two, assaulting her like that!"

"Oh, are you jealous, little sister? Well, the fair lady is mine!" George declared, yanking Luna to his chest. "Gold of sunshine in her hair," he recited loudly.

"Lips that shame the red, red rose - " Fred joined in.

The youngest Weasley stepped forward warningly. "If you don't let her go, I'll hit you in the nose."

George released Luna immediately, raising his hands. "Alright, alright," he muttered. "I shall relinquish my claim of the Moon Princess to Ginny the Great, oh fearsome one."

Glaring, Ginny hooked her arm with Luna's, brushing the grass from her flaxen hair. "Since Bill and Fleur married and Ron and Hermione got engaged, those two have been flirting with anything that breaths. I think mum's been pressuring them into finding wives," Ginny mumbled.

"How are Bill and Fleur?"

"Bill is back in Egypt with his wife," The redhead grumbled, just the thought of _Phlegm_ making her face tint pink. "Fleur is a month pregnant, did you know? Mum's all aglow."

Luna smiled. "Lovely. And how are your other brothers?"

"Charlie's in Romania and Percy is stifled with work," she shrugged. "As always."

Neville came up beside them, smiling shyly at Luna.

"Happy birthday, Neville," she said serenely, bringing from her robes a small box. "This is for you. Open it now?"

"I, er," Neville stammered. "Yes, of course." He inspected the gift, wary under Luna's sharp gaze. The box was made of velvet, likely once holding woman's jewelry. "Oh, um," he blinked, staring down at the radish earrings. "For me? You shouldn't have."

"They're clip-ons," Luna said breezily. "Papa says that plums enhance the wisdom of their wearers, but I've also learned that they help with forgetfulness."

Neville gave a small smile, slowly bringing them up to his ears.

Ginny snorted in amusement, shaking her head at the ridiculous accessory. "If anything else, they're very good conversation points. Nev, I've been meaning to ask you," she began seriously. "Are you sure you're okay sharing your birthday with this Potter fellow? Mum kind of just leapt at the chance to meet him, without really thinking about the fact none of us know him at all - "

"It's fine, Gin," Neville said soothingly. "I get that you're a bit wary around strangers, especially since Fleur just swaggered her way into your lives, but, really, it'll be fine."

"But what about Sirius Black? The bloke was in _jail_ for more than a decade."

"I'm sure Black is a . . . lovely fellow."

"You mean Stubby Boardman?" Luna piped up, tilting her head. "He's never been in jail, he's just a retired singer."

Her friends stared at her in bewilderment.

Molly Weasley glanced out her window just then, smiling at the heads of red, blonde and brown spotting her yard.

The screen-door was pushed open, Xeno striding in with an easy smile. "Oh, Xeno, I'm glad you could make it," Molly exclaimed, wiping her hands on the patched apron hanging across her hips. "Arthur's in the garage, if you two want to . . . er, collaborate."

The man's eyes lit up. "Oh, yes." Xeno pulled from his fanny pack a folded paper, detailing the sale price for a vintage car. "I contacted a dealer that used to work at that auction show in Dorset, and he's selling an old Ford Angela - " the man babbled on.

Molly gave a strained smile. "I'm sure Arthur will enjoy that very much," she pushed Xeno out towards the garage. "You two go have fun. I'll holler when the other man of honor arrives."

She busied herself with dinner, adding a sprig of basil into the large pot of soup. Cooking was usually a source of calm for Molly, qualming her rampant and anxious thoughts - but today, she was only reminded of who the meal was truly for; James and Lily's son.

Molly was certain he would be a sweet boy, and young Harry could do with some friends his own age. It couldn't be healthy, trapped at home with an erratic and irresponsible middle-aged man.

Don't get Molly wrong, Sirius had been a charming man seventeen years ago. While Sirius and James were lawmen on the field, Arthur was a lieutenant, largely sequestered at his desk. Regardless, over a decade in jail did nothing to help Sirius. Though he put on a smile, Molly knew enough of war-torn men that something darker was brewing inside.

Poor Harry.

After that suspicious note from Tonks, Dumbledore had been obsessed with the boy. It had been Albus' idea for the party, in fact, and Molly wasn't one to say no to her husband's boss.

Besides, perhaps a nice celebration was something everyone needed.

* * *

Harry stepped off Sirius' motorbike, hands deep in his sweater pockets.

Sirius encouraged the boy to make friends with the Weasleys and the Longbottom boy - he apparently _'needed friends close to his age, other than Lily.'_ Problem was, the last teenager Harry had willing engaged in conversation with was his cousin. That was several years ago, before Dudley died via stray bullet.

Harry removed the motorcycle helmet Sirius had lent him, smoothing down his hair. "Say hello," Sirius said pointedly, knocking into Harry's ribs.

Two red-headed boys careened towards them, with bright, welcoming grins on their faces. "If it isn't Sirius Black," one of them exclaimed.

"Overgrown delinquient,"

"Scoundrel,"

"Mischief-maker!" They said in union.

Sirius broke out in a grin. "Just like your uncles, you are."

The twins shot each other smug smirks. "Worse, we'd hope."

"Stop heckling our guests!" came a voice from the house. A tan, homely woman bustled into the yard, her long floral dress stained with cooking oil. "Sirius, dear. And Harry!" she surged forward, wrapping her arms around him. Harry stiffened, the soft, warm embrace unfamiliar but not entirely unpleasant. She took his cheeks and squeezed them, cooing. "You look just like your father! But your eyes, they're -"

"His mother's eyes," Sirius chimed.

Molly blushed, releasing the boy. "I'm sorry, darling. The last time I saw you, you were in your mum's belly. I was pregnant with Ronnie at the time, Lily and I were very excited to be having babies together."

"You'll be meeting Ronniekins soon," one of the twins smirked. "He's likely with his _fiancée,_ smooching beneath the apple tree. We'll go fetch them."

"Fiancée?" Sirius said in surprise. "Miss Granger, I presume. They're rather young, aren't they?"

Molly shook her head. "They've known each other many years, since poor Hermione's mum and father disappeared. Though Hermione's accepted the engagement, they won't be marrying until she's finished uni," the woman sighed. "Gives me a good few years to plan the wedding, at least. Oh! And Fleur is pregnant!"

The green-eyed boy, who'd begun glazing over at the small talk, jerked in surprise. Fleur Delacour? That was right - Tom mentioned her husband was a Weasley. Harry wondered if the baby was Krum's or Weasleys. Either way, he hoped the promiscuous woman would finally settle down once her child was born.

Another head of hair, this one bright white, peered out the front door. "Oh! Hello, folks," the man said awkwardly. "Erm, Molly, the oven's going off."

The yard was suddenly flooded with people, most of them red-haired. There was a small, blonde girl holding hands with a dark haired boy. "Neville Longbottom," the boy introduced quietly. "Happy Birthday, Harry,"

"Er, you too," Harry shook his hand. "We're eating already, then?"

Neville shrugged, giving a lopsided smile. "Just go with it. Once food enters the equation, things will soon descend into chaos. Best to get it out of the way."

This logic was odd, but Harry soon realized that 'chaos' was good term for the Weasleys. But it was a . . . loving, lively kind of chaos.

He found himself smiling easier, laughing along with the others and exchanging glib comments with the other three outsiders; Hermione, Neville and Luna. Hermione seemed awfully familiar, though Harry didn't linger on that sensation long.

"So, how is it? Living with a criminal."

"Ronald!" Hermione scolded, her dark hair frizzing in the slight heat.

"It's, er, mad," Harry admitted. "But not nearly as mad as this." The Weasleys laughed.

Molly peeked her head out. "Food's ready!" Fred or George cheered, rushing after their mother. The others followed suit, the delicious smells assaulting their nose.

"Come on, Harry," Neville smiled at him, snapping the boy from his shock. "Wouldn't want to miss the meal of the century."

* * *

The calm before the storm was not meant to last long.

The gala had begun, men and women from all over the United Kingdom heeding the invitation. Percy smiled and thanked the guests, standing stiff-backed next to his boss. Madam Umbridge was dressed in her usual hue of nauseating pastels, with pink pearls, stockings and a too-tight dress that accentuated her hips. It made her look even more toad-like than usual.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Cornelius," Umbridge crooned at an over-large, wrinkled man. Percy recognized him as a former minister - the one Scrimgeour usurped several terms ago. Scrimgeour had been in power for four five-year terms, and Percy was almost grateful. The Ministry was far better off with Scrimgeour than the likes of Fudge, the doddering fool.

Stomach rumbling painfully, Percy turned his attention toward the buffet table. Knowing Umbridge would be occupied flirting with Fudge, Percy slipped away. His hunger could suddenly rival that of all his brothers, combined.

Percy wasn't alone at the buffet.

Barty Crouch Jr. looked well-rested and put together, wearing his usual pin-striped suit. "Finally detach yourself from the Umbitch?" Barty moved uncomfortably close to Percy.

Startled, the red-head fumbled with his plate. "It - it's _Umbridge,_ Crouch. Though I wouldn't expect _you_ to have any respect for your betters," he sniffed.

"Oh, I do have respect for my betters," Barty assured. "You're just not one of them."

Fuming, Percy tried to focus on spearing a chunk of chicken. Barty took the opportunity to surreptitiously slip a device out of his pocket, placing it beneath the tablecloth. "Enjoy the food while you can, _Weatherby,"_ the man whispered ominously. Percy stilled, and the man pulled away, smiling innocently. "It seems your herd of a family have arrived. I quite expect their stomachs to be as enlarged as your ego by the end of the night." The man stole a grape from Percy's plate, popping it with his teeth.

"Oh," his tongue flicked out momentarily, gaze dark with amusement. "And tell lovely Miss Granger that the Wilkins family says _'hello'."_

As Barty swaggered away, Percy angrily stuffed a piece of cheese into his mouth. Though Crouch Jr. was infuriating, Percy's family was even worse. All of them were here, except Billy and Charlie, who were busy with their own lives, and considerate enough not to meddle in his. "Oi! It's Perfect Percy," a heavy clap descended on his back, causing the man to choke.

"You look like shite, mate," Fred chimed in, leaning around to steal from Percy's plate.

"I daresay he's a sight better than the rest of these uppity Ministry folk," George sent a heated glance at the Malfoy family. Their noses were so far in the air that he suspected they were stuck that way.

 _"Guys,"_ Percy hissed, feeling his face flush. The commotion they were making had begun to draw eyes.

"God, Percy," Fred laughed loudly. "Do they all have sticks up their arses, or is it just you?"

Percy went as red as his hair.

Lucius Malfoy sneered at the scene, lips curling in disgust. "Don't look now, darling, but it's our least favorite brood." Narcissa arched a dark brow at the crowd of red-haired hooligans swarming the food table.

"They just can't stop procreating, it seems," Draco drawled from beside them, his expression bored. "The amount of red hair and freckles in that family is _revolting_."

"And there are a few add-ons, as well," Lucius added, spotting a girl with dark skin clutching the hand of the youngest son. His eyes slid over to Sirius Black and a small, black-haired boy. Lucius recognized them both immediately.

Meanwhile, Narcissa was staring at her niece, Dora Tonks. The girl had dyed her hair an obnoxious shade of green that made her stand out even more than the Weasleys. She wore a blue pantsuit with a leather belt. A hint of black metal peeked out from beneath her shirt - a gun.

Lucius shared a look with Narcissa.

"Draco," she abruptly said to her son, squeezing his shoulder. "If you'll excuse me, I have to speak to my niece about the company she keeps. Why don't you find Mister Greengrass' daughters, Daphne and Astoria." By the way Draco's eyes lit up and scanned the crowd, Narcissa had hit the nail on the head. Her son was hopelessly in love with the younger girl.

Draco quickly disappeared in search of his crush.

"Once the message is delivered, feign an urgent call from Abraxas," Narcissa murmured urgently. "We will not place my son in anymore danger. Understood?"

The older man squeezed Narcissa's hand tightly, pressing a light, adoring kiss to the knuckles. "Be swift, my dear."

Smoothing back her long, bleached hair, Narcissa approached her niece with slight trepidation. Tonks looked up from a deep conversation with Remus Lupin, the older man stepping back awkwardly. "Aunty," she said. "I thought I'd see you here."

Narcissa forced on a sneer. "Naturally, Nymphadora. How is your mother?"

"Same as ever. Have you met Remus Lupin? He's a dear friend of mine," Tonks gestured toward Remus, who blanched at the direct introduction.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure." Narcissa eyed the man's threadbare suit and the tired marks beneath his eyes. "Narcissa Malfoy. I'm sure you've heard of my husband."

"Of course he has," someone barked. The woman closed her eyes in exasperation. She had hoped to avoid her rambunctious relative. Even though Narcissa had a hand in Albus' decision to release the man from jail, she certainly didn't wish for a _reunion._ "Cousin Sissy, it's been a while."

Sirius sidled into her line of sight, his hair long and crimped. He was just as ungainly as ever, though a bit on the sickly side. "I do hope you remember the bouquet of roses I sent over in honor of your engagement to Malfoy?"

"That was nearly twenty years ago, but, yes. Dead roses, if I remember correctly," Narcissa said dryly. "Thought you were being funny, Sirius?"

"I _am_ funny, Cissy," Sirius grinned roguishly. "But I see that the betrothal turned out for the best. An heir, Narcissa? However did you manage it?"

"Lucius is _not_ celibate, Sirius, regardless of the crude groin attack you delivered during that game of rugby in school."

"You did _what?"_ Dora exclaimed.

Remus and Sirius smirked in tandem at the memory. "He deserved it."

"Hm," Narcissa was doubtful. "Or you two and Potter were horrid bullies. How is James' son? I've heard through the grapevine that you've taken custody of the lad."

Sirius lit up. "He's here! I'm not sure where - probably with the Weasley boys. But he's a lot like James."

"So I wouldn't like him, then," the woman mused. "Well, this was certainly an _interesting_ conversation." In a motion very much unlike her, she pulled her niece into a loose hug. Tonks squeaked in surprise. "Be careful," Narcissa whispered into Tonk's ear, slipping something into the girl's hand.

The woman then swept away without a mother word.

Tonks and the two men stared after her in amazement. "What a character," Remus shook his head. "Come on, Sirius, let's find our wayward godson."

As the two left Tonks by herself, the girl slowly uncrumpled the slip of paper Narcissa had pressed into her palm. The motion felt very familiar, and Tonks was hit with the same sense of urgency that she had over a month ago.

The warning made her tremble, her expression darkening in an instant.

* * *

It was the second party Harry had attended in two days. As the band played a smooth classical piece, Harry drifted over to a secluded portion of the hall.

He was frayed at the edges, flinching at every loud noise. Harry had begged Sirius to stay at home with him, but the man thought Harry's anxiety was him simply being _shy_ _._

There were moments that Harry considered telling Sirius or Dumbledore about Tom's plan - But remembering Tom's disarming smiles and sweet words made him falter. Against all odds, Harry still trusted the man.

The boy stared out a large window, watching as a sleek car pulled up to the hall. Their nation's flag fluttered on the antennae. It was Rufus Scrimgeour, the Minister, accompanied by Dumbledore. They were instantly swarmed by reporters.

"There you are!" Sirius came up behind him, scooping the boy into a harsh noogie.

Harry disentangled himself from his godfather, trying in vain to fix his hair. "Sirius! It took me half an hour to get it to lie flat."

Sirius snorted. "Your father used to spend _hours_ in the bathroom. He used about a vat of gel for his wedding and he looked like a right ponce. It's better this way." The boy disagreed but reluctantly left his hair alone. "Where'd you run off to? I thought you were with Ron and 'Mione."

"Hermione dragged Ron off to talk with some Ministry folk about women's rights," He gave a one-armed shrug. "I'd have joined in, but that Umbridge woman is a piece of work."

The man laughed. "That's one word for her," Sirius swung an arm around Harry's shoulder. "Remus found us a place right by the stage. He suspects the speeches will start soon." As they made their way back to Remus, Dumbledore and Scrimgeour made their joint entrance.

As predicted, Umbridge bustled on stage, pink lips stretched into a coy smile. Percy handed her a microphone while Barty Crouch Senior gestured for the band to finish their sonata.

"Welcome, welcome!" the woman began, voice sweet as a peach. "I _personally_ thank you all for attending this momentous event," her words gained a smattering of claps. "Before the proceedings continue, Minister Scrimgeour himself would like to say a few words."

The tall, thin man stepped on stage. He resembled a lion, with wild, peppered orange hair. The strands curled around his ears, a pair of golden glasses on the tip of his crooked nose. He looked remarkably similar to Dumbledore, making Harry wonder if a bit of nepotism was involved. The man lifted a bony hand to silence the applauding crowd, pinched lips smirking.

"Thank you," his voice resonated. It was deep and scratchy, holding behind it a great deal of power. "Your support is much appreciated. After over twenty years of serving as your Minister, you'd think that I'd finally be nearing retirement. In these past terms, I've altered the economy for the better, I've increased rights for minorities and -with the help of Albus Dumbledore, our Head of Law Enforcement - the justice system is stronger than ever. Rest assured, I am _not_ about to walk away from my duties as Minister," the crowd went silent with awe. He lifted his head high. "I'd like to announce my intent to once more run in this year's election for Minister."

A round of cheers reverberated through the building. Percy Weasley applauded the hardest, standing beside a beaming Umbridge."Great speech, Weatherby," Barty jabbed Percy in the side, gesturing to his face. "But you've got a bit of food on your mouth."

Percy flushed, wiping his lips.

"Now, to introduce my _opponent_ ," Rufus spoke over the crowd. "Mister Pius Thicknesse!"

A stout, brown-haired man with a short goatee bounded up the steps, waving a hand in greeting. The floor began to vibrate as a group of well-dressed men - among them the likes of Crabbe and Goyle - stomping their feet. Lucius Malfoy sneered at them, steering his wife and son out of the building, murmuring a hurried apology to Rookwood and his co-workers. Harry noticed Malfoy's hasty exit, a sense of anticipation thrumming toward him.

"Sirius," Harry tugged the man's arm, trying to drag him away from the stage. The older man was booing Thicknesse enthusiastically, egged on by one of the Weasley twins. Remus was frowning in disapproval, but he was nothing but an enabler. "Sirius, we should go."

Pius took the stage. He tapped the microphone, rearing back as the speakers squealed. The crowd laughed, but Barty Crouch Junior rolled his eyes, pulling out his phone. Percy frowned at the man, opening his mouth the admonish Barty's rudeness.

"Sorry," Pius laughed. "Well, thank you, Minister, for that uplifting speech," his words were shrill and oily. "I have to say, your speech writers really are impeccable. Most everything you said was true - you _are_ getting old on years. Four terms seems gruelling, but somehow, you've managed it. Astonishing," his tone dripped with sarcasm. "And yet, while it is undeniable that you've certainly changed things in our government, the real question is . . . were they for the better?"

Barty shut his phone with a click.

With that, the Granger's bomb went off. The buffet exploded in a shudder of mash and burnt tablecloth, Fred Weasley - who'd been reaching for another finger-sandwich - along with it.

Molly Weasley released a piercing cry, and the others followed soon after.

* * *

Bellatrix was hiding in the control booth, a series of sniper equipment lain out around her. The dead body of a blonde lighting technician was slumped against the wall, his headset discarded on the ground.

Bellatrix smirked as she stared into the crosshairs. Scrimgeour was just in sight, standing only a few feet away from the microphone. As her finger curled around the trigger, a sudden clatter was heard directly behind her.

"Step away from the gun, Aunt Bella," came a tight voice. "Turn around slowly," Tonks' gun pressed into the back of Bellatrix's curly hair. "And maybe I won't shoot you."

"You wouldn't shoot me anyways," Bella spat, but she pulled away from the gun. "You're too much like your mother, Nymphadora."

Tonks stood over the crouched woman, her pantsuit disheveled and her hair bright. She was trembling from head to toe, her heart beating a mile a minute.

"I take that as a compliment," Tonks said. "Stand up. I'm taking you to Dumbledore."

Bellatrix inspected her niece slowly, before laughing. "You're such a liar, dear. I've killed some of Dumbledore's best men without breaking a sweat. Unless he thinks you're _expendable,_ he'd have never trusted a low-ranking _meter maid_ with," she waved her hand. "Whatever this pathetic display is."

Tonks flinched. Bellatrix's eyes narrowed. "Someone tipped you off, didn't they? Once I kill you, I'm going to tear their tongue out slowly and painfully."

The girl's nostrils expanded. "You - you'd torture your own sister?"

Bella paused. "Your mother?"

 _"Narcissa,"_ Tonks spat, eyes smug. "My mum isn't the only white sheep of the Black family."

Betrayal shot through Bellatrix, though she hid it well. "Then she's just as pathetic as _you."_

As Tonks opened her mouth to respond, the screams began. Tonks lowered the gun, surging over to the small window, eyes blown with horror. Bellatrix threw her head back with laughter. "It's begun, dear niece. This is my revenge," she bared her teeth. "And even if you do have the balls to kill me, Tom will avenge me - like he always does."

Tonks turned, her gun once more raised. Bella smirked.

Even if she couldn't kill Scrimgeour, she wasn't about to go down easily. Bellatrix leapt forward with an animalistic snarl, grabbing Tonks by the hair, yanking roughly.

A shot went off.

* * *

The chaos was delightful.

When the bomb exploded, screams and laughter created a sickening harmony. Crabbe and Goyle wiped the crumbs from their hands, pivoting towards the stage. Dumbledore had rushed toward Scrimgeour, dragging him toward the exit.

Assuming that Bella had choked, Tom's less sane companions took things into their own hands. A volley of gun-shots came from every direction - you couldn't pinpoint a single shooter. Scrimgeour was hit first, bullets piercing his chest. Barty Crouch Junior then shot his father straight through the heart, right in front of a wide-eyed Percy.

Dumbledore abandoned the Minister quickly, sparing barely a glance at his superior. Just before he slipped away, the Head of Law Enforcement was stuck in the back of his head, white hair soaked in red.

 _"Albus!"_ Sirius howled, surging forward. Remus scratched at his arms, trying to drag Sirius back. Harry tried to catch up, but he slipped forward in a pool of blood, his scalp cracking against the ground.

"Harry!"

Sirius finally tore his gaze from Albus' collapsed body. Dazed green eyes met silver and Harry watched in horror as Sirius was struck in the chest. The man looked at the bullet wound in shock, falling to his knees.

 _"Sirius,"_ Harry whispered.

The man fell flat on his face, blood trickling from his mouth. Harry screamed.

Rough hands grabbed him by the armpits, dragging him up and away from the body. "Leave him," Remus sobbed, tugging Harry away. "Leave him."

Sirens wailed, police cars pulling up to the Ministry, but the sounds faded into a blur. Harry stumbled through the hall, pushing past a sobbing man, who clutched his dead wife's hand to his chest.

Gunshots still rang, both friendly fire and otherwise. Remus' grasp slipped away as the man was swept into the throng of fleeing bodies.

As a bullet grazed his ear, Harry ducked beneath a table, breathing heavily. He curled up into a ball, tears slipping from his eyes. His head hurt like hell, something warm and wet trickling from his forehead. But all he could do was chant to himself; _Tom's coming._

 _Tom's coming._

 _Tom's coming._

* * *

"We've all been riveted by the events that occurred just a few hours ago at the Minister's Gala," Rita Skeeter reported from in front of the yellow-taped building. Her hair was an unnatural shade of read, her cat-eye glass sparkling.

"Several arrests have been made, but with the death of Albus Dumbledore - former Head of Law Enforcement - the justice system is reportedly in disarray. Amelia Bones has been temporarily promoted to chief of staff and has made this statement.

" _'While we are all grieving the loss of two great leaders and a number of just-as-valued bystanders, the Ministry is doing all we can to bring justice for the victims' families'._ Potential suspects for the death of Rufus Scrimgeour include Gustavus Goyle, Paschal Crabbe, Fenrir Greyback, Aloysius Avery - "

Harry tuned out the rest, sitting stiffly in the back of the ambulance. Doctor McDougal gently applied a bandage around Harry's head, murmuring about a _'possible concussion'_ and _'scarring'_. A scratchy blanket was around Harry's shoulders, providing little to no warmth. He was chilled to the bone, his pupils blown and expression slack from what McDougal claimed was shock.

But Harry knew that from all that he'd seen and all that he's done - or _hasn't_ done - he would never feel anything the same ever again.

Sensing that Harry wasn't listening to a word McDougal was saying, the man patted his shoulder consolingly. "You'll be fine, lad," he murmured. "I'm sorry about your godfather." The rest was unspoken.

 _And Remus. And Fred. And Tonks._

Their bodies had been found only recently, brought out on cots, faces covered by black tarps. Harry recognized Tonks from her hair, Remus by his wedding ring and Fred - well, only pieces of Fred had been found.

Tonks had been found next to Bellatrix Lestrange; she had killed her aunt with a single bullet to the throat, only to turn the gun on herself. Remus was simply a victim of flying bullets. After the two had gotten separated, Remus bled out from a bullet to the stomach.

Harry tried to think of baby Lily and of Patty, both of them safe at home. But Lily was without a father now, and her mother likely wracked with grief.

Sometimes, cycles really did continue.

As McDougal left to help the other injured, Harry fingered the blood-stained hem of his shirt, wondering if it was his blood or someone else's.

 _"Harry,"_ came a sharp voice. His name echoed, sibilant and familiar. Harry glanced up, heart hammering a tattoo against his ribs. _"Moya lyubov."_

A slim figure lingered several meters away, the soft glow of the moon illuminating his hair. It looked like a dark halo. "T - Tom?" Harry wondered aloud, hopping down from the ambulance. He was instantly hit with a wave of nausea and vertigo. He stumbled briefly, but single-mindedly ignored the pain. Pushing through the bustling medical personal and blue-blooded policemen, he peered into the alley.

 _"Tom,"_ he breathed, rushing forward to bury his face into the man's suit.

Even if the man's hair was ruffled and his clothing haphazardly thrown on, he looked resplendent to Harry. Bags were beneath his eyes, the blue orbs jaded and tired, like his entire world had recently come crashing down.

At least Tom and Harry were similar in that.

"My god, Harry," Tom abandoned all sense of decorum, falling to his knees and tugging the boy onto his lap. "I'm so sorry."

"What _happened?"_ Harry whispered into the man's lapel, his voice breaking. "I'm glad you're alright, but _please -_ I have to know."

Tom buried his nose into Harry's curls. "Bellatrix failed," he murmured after a moment, red-rimmed eyes slipping shut. "She was ambushed by one of Dumbledore's officers, and when the bomb was activated, the rest of my men went rogue. They couldn't be stopped."

Harry pulled away, cheeks wet. "They killed my godfather! And Remus, and Fred and countless others - "

"I _know,"_ Tom hissed, pinching his nose in frustration. "Trust me, I know. But I had no hand in that. And I didn't expect you to be here today. I didn't expect Dumbledore to release Black from jail, much less try and drag you into his sphere of influence. I didn't know Dumbledore would invite you to the gala, and I certainly didn't want you to be hurt," his hand brushed against the bandage wrapped tight around Harry's head. "Please believe me, Harry. I really am sorry about your godfather, and the rest."

Green eyes fluttered shut. "You mean my mum and dad?"

"I - " Tom faltered. "Yes, them too."

"Tell me. Tell me about them."

The man released a shuttering breath. "Peter Pettigrew gave me their address and - out of my loyalty to Bella - I killed them. It wasn't anything personal, they were just victims of this unending war between me and Dumbledore. Even if you think me awful, I will never regret sparing you. I will never regret _being_ with you."

Harry was quiet for a moment, though his tight grip on Tom never slackened. "I don't blame you, Tom, not really."

"Really?"

"I've been thinking . . . Sirius made his choice seventeen years ago to chase after Peter Pettigrew. By making that choice, he left me alone. Peter may have betrayed my mum and dad - but Sirius betrayed _me_. Dumbledore betrayed me. They may have made up for their mistakes in the past few weeks, but I can never forget being lost and unloved.

"But you - " he pressed his fist to Tom's heart. "You changed my life. You made me feel _loved_ and _wanted._ Not like Sirius and Remus did; they loved the _idea_ of their best friend reincarnated, but you loved me for me. And why shouldn't I give you the same benefit?" he sniffed wetly, setting his shoulders. "It's time for me to make choices for myself, and whether or not I regret it in the future, I'm sticking with it. I'm sticking with _you."_

Tom smiled - a real, genuine smile - and it was beautiful. "Good," he whispered, meeting his forehead with Harry's. "Because I'm never letting you go."

Harry laughed at the words, an indescribable lightness breaking through the sorrow that had consumed him the last few hours. Surging up, his lips met Tom's in a wet, messy kiss that was more amazing than expected. Tom pressed forward, clutching Harry's waist in a desperate, possessive manner.

The necessity of breath overcoming them both, Harry pulled away, panting.

"What now, then?" he asked, tasting Tom in his mouth and fighting the need for more. Tom required a moment to conduct himself, his blue eyes slightly glazed.

"With the arrests," he began jerkingly. "Of spineless, jabbering fools like Goyle and Crabbe, I suspect I'll need to flee the country."

Harry blinked at the words.

"W-where? Bulgaria?"

Tom pondered this for a moment. "No, Viktor would not appreciate harboring a wanted criminal. It'd be horrid for his reputation. However, I know a family in Australia that owe me many favors," the man grinned inexplicably at that.

"You aren't going to make me regret this, are you?" Harry grimaced, getting unsteadily back to his feet. Tom helped him, allowing the boy to lean into his side. They fit like two puzzle-pieces, a riddle finally solved.

Tom pressed his lips into Harry's curls, a smile on his face.

"Never."

* * *

 _ **The End**_


End file.
